


Violent Delights

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Auror Draco Malfoy, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Case Fic, Crime Scenes, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drunk Sex, Graphic Description of Corpses, H/D Cluefest 2021, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Heavy Drinking, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy Friendship, Implied/Referenced Animal Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Masturbation, Moral Ambiguity, Murder, Oral Sex, POV Draco Malfoy, Recluse Harry Potter, Rimming, Rough Sex, Scent Kink, Serial Killers, Strangulation, death of a child (off screen)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29585304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Draco Malfoy's life should be going very well. He's engaged to a wonderful man and in line for the Head Auror job. He's been made lead investigator on a serial murder case, trying to figure out who is killing off the scum of the wizarding world, one by one.So what if he's kind of miserable? Things always get better.Right?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 61
Collections: H/D Cluefest 2021





	1. Come, Gentle Night

**Author's Note:**

> This work is about a serial killer. Read the tags before you start. No murders happen on screen, but there is plenty of blood and dead bodies. 
> 
> After reveals, I'll thank my betas here :) Thank you, also, to my cheerleaders!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a description of a murder scene and mentions of child abuse, child death, and animal abuse. None of the topics are graphically described, but they are there.

_**These violent delights have violent ends** _

**_And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,_ **

**_Which as they kiss consume_ **

Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_

Mars Blakely was still bleeding when Draco Malfoy blasted the apartment door out of its frame. Draco didn’t remember crossing the wood floors, but found himself kneeling beside the body, his fingers pressing desperately to Blakely’s throat, searching for any signs of a pulse. Blakely’s eyes were dim, though; he was gone. Sticky, black blood pooled around him, leaking weakly from the wound in his abdomen, but it was only gravity. His heart had stopped beating. 

Draco stood. He was tempted to kick the corpse in frustration, but thought that would be a bad look for a lead investigator. “ _Fuck_ ,” he murmured instead. He pulled a golden coin from his robe pocket and tapped it twice with his bloody thumb. Backup would come in a matter of seconds. They would comb the apartment for anything the killer left—a stray hair, a handprint, magical residue—whatever might give a clue as to who sliced Blakely open. But they may as well not come. There would be nothing left. There never was.

Nothing but the horrible, coppery smell of blood in the July heat and yet another lifeless body.

As Aurors popped into the flat, wands drawn, Draco scoured his hands in the kitchen sink. Even with magic, it was nearly impossible to get dried blood out from under his fingernails. And, of course, he couldn’t cast a _tergio_ in an active crime scene. 

Holden Ledbury, a recent graduate from training, passed behind Draco to look further in the kitchen. Draco gestured at the sink. “That’s my doing,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Ledbury replied. He was white as a sheet—Draco thought back and realized this might be the kid’s first murder scene. He sighed. The new recruits seemed barely old enough for their own wands these days, though he supposed he was only 20 himself when he’d started.

Another Junior Auror entered the kitchen. “Ready to give your statement, sir?” she asked. Draco couldn’t remember her name. There were so many of them.

“Haven’t even had dinner yet,” Draco grumbled. “And I’m still covered in blood. I’ll have someone pull the memory tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir,” the young woman answered, flushing. _Ugh_ , Draco thought. 

Behind her, on the counter, was a very expensive chocolate bar. The wrapper was peeled back, but all the squares were intact, not even a tooth-mark breaking the elegant print. Blakely must have opened it just before the killer arrived. Draco would have felt sorry for the man, having died before he ate his ridiculously-pricey treat, but Blakely had been a disgusting excuse for a wix. He’d served two years of a ninety-nine years sentence for human trafficking; he was a well-known supplier of Squib children to various markets.

Draco left the kitchen, giving the body a wide berth. There were around a dozen Aurors scuttling about, cataloging and photographing and recording. The flat was stiflingly hot, Blakely’s cooling charms shutting off with his death, and Draco was far too frustrated to stay and watch his team come up with absolutely nothing. 

Again. 

He scanned faces until he recognized one of them. “Rosales,” he barked.

Rosales looked up from the suitcase they’d been sifting through, and stood when they realized it was Draco who had called them. “Sir?”

“I’m going home. You’re in charge. Get this mess cleaned up and brief me in the morning.”

Wide-eyed, Rosales nodded, their pink curls bobbing with the motion. “I— Er. Okay.” They cleared their throat. “I mean, yes, sir.”

Draco liked them immensely and decided to try to learn their first name. “Great. See you tomorrow.”

With that, he left through the fire exit, drinking in the delicious, fresh air.

Draco decided to walk the few blocks to the Tube station, despite the sweltering heat, to clear his head before he got home. He had always been good at the puzzle-solving part of Auror work; that’s what earned him the Senior Auror title a couple of years ago. There had never been a code that Draco couldn’t crack, a pattern he couldn’t decipher… Or a cabinet he couldn’t repair. 

He hated feeling like he was missing something, but that was the theme of this case: Draco was always a half-step behind the killer. It was infuriating. 

Five wixes dead, killed brutally, and he was no closer to finding the murderer than he was when it all started.

\\\\\

The first murder was a little over two years prior to Blakely’s death. 

Nicholas Aimes was a member of the Wizengamot, a centrist who swayed toward reform movements and away from traditionalism, but who was well-liked in political circles. He donated plenty of gold to the right causes post-war, seemed sincere and genuine in press appearances, and was often described as the kind of wizard you’d invite to a backyard Quidditch match.

Aimes’s beloved wife, Margaritte, died shortly after the birth of their fourth child. Tragedy struck the family again just two years later, when the littlest boy died as a result of a head injury. In every interview with medical staff, Aurors, mind healers, Aimes said the same thing: The boy had fallen down the stairs. No one had any reason to doubt his claims, and Aimes played the grieving father well. 

Then, an instructor at Aimes’s oldest daughter’s grade school intercepted a note from the girl to a friend. The note, published later in the _Prophet_ , was written in a looping, childish script, and had only one line: _I’m afraid he’ll do it to me too._

An inquiry was launched and Aurors pulled the children’s records from St. Mungo’s. What they found was horrifying: Ten years of suspicious injuries to all four of the children, including the deceased toddler. Friends of the late Margaritte Aimes came forward, saying they had been wary of Aimes for some time, that Margaritte had sometimes alluded to dark moods. The children were interviewed and each separately confirmed what Aurors suspected; Aimes was violent toward all of them. 

Aimes was charged with the murder of his son and the abuse of his children. He was held in the newly-established Niveus Torquem Wizarding Prison, Dementor-free and located on land rather than a desolate island. Given that Aimes had been a member in high standing with the Wizengamot, a jury of impartial peers was selected to try his case. In exchange for relinquishing his parental rights and agreeing to a no-contact order, Aimes’s charges were reduced to one count of accidental deadly injury.

He was sentenced to one year in prison, of which he served only four months; he was released for good behavior.

There was widespread outrage upon news of Aimes’s release, with conspiracies ranging from greased palms to blackmail. The Ministry made one public statement, which said nothing of substance, and then never spoke another word about Nicholas Aimes.

That is, until he was found by his new girlfriend, his own kitchen knife sticking out of his chest. 

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement investigated Aimes’s murder for two months without any sort of lead. No one had been seen entering or leaving the cottage in Devon where Aimes was found; the girlfriend had a rock-solid alibi. There was no traceable magical signature, no evidence of any kind—not a fingerprint, tracks outside, or even any sign that the door had been forced open. The running theory was that someone had hired a very talented hitman to murder Aimes, which was widely accepted by the public. 

\\\\\

Bruce Bennington was the type of man who had been on the DMLE’s radar for decades, but always managed to slip out of whatever trouble he caused. He had started out with petty crime in his youth—pickpocketing, shoplifting, burglary—and eventually graduated to more serious endeavors. Bennington had run a crup-fighting ring for several years before the Aurors had broken it up, though they could never prove it was his; for a while he transported stolen artifacts around Europe, but abandoned the effort when his associates kept getting arrested; he piloted a document-forging business, then moved to art forgery, and finally fine art fencing. 

From there, he expanded to other black market sales—exotic animals, illegal potions—and found his way into the Muggle human trafficking world. Bennington made quite a profit, judging by his growing list of assets, but he was clever and laundered his money well. For years, Aurors followed him closely, analyzed every financial record, monitored his travel, but, infuriatingly, had never been able to gather enough evidence for so much as a broom-speed citation. 

One Monday morning, the Junior Auror monitoring Bennington’s Floo reported that he hadn’t used it all weekend. Suspicious, a Senior Auror sent a pair of trainees to the flat for a drop-in. The trainees looked through Bennington’s keyhole and found him crumpled in his entryway. 

Bennington had been hit with a simple _Avada Kedavra_. His front door was unlocked, so presumably he had opened it, been killed, and the murderer shut the door and went on their way. No neighbors had noticed any unusual activity. The Daily Prophet’s owl had returned without delivering the Sunday paper, but that wasn’t exactly alarming enough to send up red sparks. Most interestingly, the AK hadn’t been picked up by the Ministry’s Unforgivable tracking system—but that wasn’t unheard of for more talented criminals.

Though there was an investigation, the Aurors quietly agreed that Bennington’s murder was a benefit to their department and to the world at large. Bennington had a number of enemies—it wasn’t difficult to conclude that he had angered someone who thought he should be done away with. The case was closed and soon forgotten. 

\\\\\ 

In early spring the following year, about six months after Bennington’s death, Draco pulled in an informant for questioning on a missing shipment of runespoor eggs. Draco, still a Junior Auror at that time, was one of only a handful of Juniors with a handler caseload; he delighted in interviewing his informants while the others filed paperwork and did menial tasks for the Senior staff. 

Vivien, a conniving young Russian woman who would have made an excellent Slytherin, spilled what she knew about the missing runespoor egs, which was frustratingly little.

Knowing better than to prod her, Draco leaned back in his chair and yawned. “I need some caffeine,” he said. “What do you want?”

“You should know my coffee order by now, Malfoy,” she said with a smirk.

“Don’t want to make you feel special,” Draco answered in his poshest Pureblood drawl. 

“But I am special.”

Draco inclined his head in a small acknowledgment of her words. “Caramel latte, no foam,” he said, and Vivien grinned. 

“Hey, when are you going to ask me about Bruce?”

Draco frowned. “Bruce? Bennington?”

“Yeah, it’s been ages since he was killed, but—” Viv cut off. 

“What is it?”

“Well, it’s just—I don’t know who did it.” 

Draco shrugged. “I don’t either.” 

“But I _always_ know,” she said.

“That’s true.” Draco paused, considering. He hadn’t been on Bennington’s murder case, but he _had_ done his fair share of tracking the man’s activity—every trainee had, as a sort of hazing. There had been a rumor that if a trainee found something worth prosecuting, they’d be immediately promoted to Junior Auror and given a large bonus. Draco had spent many nights combing Bennington’s financial records, looking for patterns, but had never found anything. He’d never asked Viv about the matter. “Do you know anything else?”

“I know lots of things,” Viv said with a smile. This was part of their game; Vivien made it clear that she always knew more than she would say, and Draco allowed her to keep some of her secrets.

“Anything else about Bennington’s murder?”

Viv shook her head. “Everyone was talking about it—he owed a lot of people money—but no one did it. Whoever did isn’t connected very well.”

“Hmm.” Draco didn’t know what to make of the information. He tucked it away in his mind, in the imaginary file with all the other puzzle pieces without puzzles, and stood. The case was closed and he didn’t fancy trying to reopen it because of a strange statement from a crooked informant. The Senior Aurors would laugh him out of the bullpen. “Well, let me know if you hear anything. I’ll be back in a moment.”

\\\\\

From Blakely’s flat, Draco took the Tube all the way to Bayswater and walked the rest of the way to his townhouse. The setting sun had eased the heavy heat of the day by the time he emerged from the platform and Draco savored the twilight city sounds—friends chatting on evening strolls, kids playing in the park across the street. He often missed the beauty and peace of Wiltshire, but he loved being surrounded by life in London.

The smell of cooking lingered in the entryway, garlic and rosemary, which Draco followed to the kitchen. There was a dish of risotto on the cooktop, still steaming under its stasis charm, and Draco’s stomach grumbled at the sight. On days like this, he usually forgot to eat. 

“Love?” came a call from upstairs. 

Draco gave the plate a lusty look, vowing to return soon, and called back, “It’s me!” He left his bag and Auror robes on the dining table and went upstairs to their reception-room-turned-library. 

Antoine was sitting sideways in his favorite cushy chair, feet tucked under him. The lamplight highlighted his sharp jawline, his lush lips, his messy-but-perfect hair. He was in joggers and a hoodie—he was always cold, even in July—and had an open book in his lap. All in all, he looked like an advert for designer loungewear, or perhaps custom library furniture.

“You’re home late, _mon tournesol_.”

“I took the tube to clear my head a bit,” Draco said, sitting on the arm of Antoine’s chair. “What are you reading?”

“ _Travail soigné_ ,” Antoine said, turning his book to show the cover. “You wouldn’t like it, it’s a murder mystery.”

Draco shook his head. “My whole life is a murder mystery.” 

Antoine set the book on the ground and pulled Draco into his lap. He kissed him gently, brushing a hand over Draco’s shoulder, and Draco let himself relax into the embrace. It felt good to come home—he could ignore the passive aggression in Antoine’s greeting.

Life as an Auror was notoriously lonely; most of his peers either cycled through a series of relationships or married other Aurors. He knew it must be difficult, being an Auror’s partner, always waiting up, never sure they were coming home—but Antoine had rarely complained until recently.

Antoine had been planning their wedding—set for next spring, just nine months away—and he wanted Draco to be more involved. Draco, however, had been working long hours as pressure built to end the serial murders. They weren’t the type to fight; Draco was far too underhanded for outright arguments and Antoine avoided conflict at all costs. So there were occasional barbed comments, silent dinners, rolled eyes—it was nothing Draco hadn’t seen before. They would get through it. 

They were just...in a rut. Normal for couples who had been together for a few years.

Sometimes Draco caught himself daydreaming about their early days—a night of dancing at a charity ball in Beaune, steamy letters written in an arduous blend of French and English, lavish dinners in Paris and Saint Tropez and anywhere else they wanted to go, passionate nights of heated touches and soft smiles. He missed it all, missed the wonder of being loved by someone who was _good_ , missed the feeling that they had a new kind of love, something that had never been seen before.

But, Draco supposed, every relationship started in flames that were eventually stoked to long-burning embers. The fire couldn’t last forever. 

He kissed Antoine’s lips, gently, and stroked his dark, straight hair. The embers would glow brighter again soon.


	2. So Light is Vanity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No gore this chapter. French translations in end notes.

“Morning, Malfoy.”

Draco glanced away from his swirling teacup to nod at Gawain Robards. He’d hardly slept the night before; once Antoine was snoring in their bed, Draco had gone down to the library to read on his favorite couch. Sometime around three or four in the morning, he’d passed out there, and woken to Antoine pouting at him a few hours later, pulling him back to bed.

Robards tapped the kettle with his wand and steam issued from its spout. As he poured the water into a clean mug, Robards cleared his throat. “I’d like you to take the position of Head Auror.”

Draco nearly dropped his cup. “Sir?” 

“You’re the best applicant,” said Robards, adding milk to his tea. “Good background—with some dark spots, yes, but a Sacred Twenty-Eight family all the same, and marrying into the Beauchamps too—and you’ve got a good record here. Clever head on your shoulders. None of that spineless namby-pamby sort of thing I’ve seen going around.” 

Still in shock, Draco nodded. “Th-thank you.”

Robards took the seat across the table from Draco. “But look, Malfoy. This—these damned murders have got to go away.” He sighed and sipped his tea. “It’s a matter of time until those vipers at the _Prophet_ piece it together, and let me tell you, every article they publish about this department takes a fucking year off my life.”

“We’re not far off from solving it, sir. It’s all there—the recent parolees, always in for a crime against children or animals or the vulnerable—in the meeting this morning I’m going to add an Auror detail to every Azkaban release for the first month they’re out,” Draco said hurriedly. He didn’t know what to make of Robards’s casual attitude. The man was always gruff; Draco thought this might be the longest conversation he’d had with Robards. Draco took a drink, trying to slow his rapidly-beating heart. 

Robards nodded. “Let me make this clear: This case needs to be solved and solved _right_. There’s far too much attention on it now to sweep it away. Malfoy, if you can toe the line, and get this bastard shipped off to Azkaban, the job is yours.” With that, Robards stood and left, leaving his empty mug on the table. 

Draco didn’t follow him. He sat, hardly breathing, trying to process what had just happened.

Head Auror. It was all he had wanted for years—at first, a silly idea while he studied for his NEWTs, then an embarrassing pipe dream during Auror training, until it slowly became a real goal—but, even when he submitted his resume for consideration last month, the possibility seemed unattainable. How could anyone hire _him_ , heir of the muddied Malfoy name, a traitor to Dumbledore and Hogwarts itself? Draco still bore the Mark, inky and rude against the pale skin of his forearm. He saw the looks when he dared roll up his shirtsleeves; he knew what some of his coworkers whispered: _People don’t change._

But he had worked _so hard_ , for so many years, to show that he was capable. Draco would never admit it, not to anyone, how much he needed to prove himself worthy. His mother had known—she had always known his heart—but she took the knowledge to her grave. 

As Draco cleared away his teacup (and Robards’), he let himself imagine, just for a few moments, arranging his ostentatiously-large reference library on the ancient oak shelves in the Head Auror office. Or standing in old Madam Malkin’s, being fitted for the heavy black robes of the job, running his fingers along the detailed gold embroidery along the sleeves. And very, very quietly, in the most guarded part of his mind, Draco pictured telling his mother the news, her smile alight with pride, the smell of her perfume as she held him close—

Draco slammed his walls down around the imaginary scene. This was not the place or time to indulge in self-pity. He placed the now-clean mugs in the cupboard and shook himself free of the reverie he’d lost himself in. 

He had a briefing to get to and a serial killer to find.

///

“I’ll take the… elderflower martini, please,” Draco told the bartender, passing the menu, lacquered onto a singed wooden plank, to Antoine, who scanned it with a small frown. 

The bartender, a little twink in a black leather chest harness and denim cutoff shorts, looked very bored and not at all willing to wait for Antoine to decide on his drink. He walked off after a few seconds to start on Draco’s order. 

The bar was dark, but clean, smelling of alcohol and bodies. Men ground their hips together under flashing neon lights timed to blaring remixed pop hits. This was not Draco and Antoine’s regular sort of place (Antoine favoured modern cocktail bars with names like _The Apothecary_ and tables with fresh-picked wildflowers in mason jars), but Draco had suggested a change of pace and Antoine had, somewhat reluctantly, agreed. A couple of Draco’s coworkers had mentioned this bar before, so here they were. A dark gay bar hidden behind a closed-down storefront, shop windows dusty and boarded up, a faded sign above the door reading _Hawthorne Hardware_. 

Antoine ordered a rum and Coke from the bartender when he returned with Draco’s martini. Draco held back a snort of laughter, which he knew would start a snit with Antoine—but Antoine _always_ ordered rum and Coke, despite insisting on reading the menu anywhere they went. Once his drink was in hand, they wandered over to a booth away from the dancefloor.

“How’s the case coming?” Antoine asked, sliding in next to Draco.

Draco shook his head. “Not fantastic—but listen, I have exciting news.” He took a deep breath. “Robards offered me the Head Auror job this morning.” Pride bloomed in Draco’s chest at the words; he’d been waiting all day to tell Antoine.

Antoine’s eyes widened. “Oh, wow.”

“Not officially,” Draco added quickly. “He needs me to solve this case first. Just to—to show him I’m ready, I think.” 

“That’s… That’s wonderful.” Antoine attempted a smile, but Draco could see the underlying expression on his face. 

“I’ll be out of the field, directing operations from the office, doing press conferences, consulting,” Draco said. The danger of fieldwork had been a sore spot for them in the past. Antoine wanted Draco to take a desk job at the department. “I’ll be safe, Antoine. No more midnight crime scenes or dueling or broom chases.” 

Antoine nodded. “Yes, of course. That is very good.” He sipped his drink from the neon-pink straw. “It’s...” 

Draco’s heart fell. Antoine wasn’t nearly as happy as Draco had thought he would be. “It’s what?”

“You work so many hours now, _mon coeur_. Will you be home for dinner as Head Auror? Or will you be needed even more?” Antoine wasn’t looking at him now. 

“I— I don’t know.” Draco swallowed, his mouth dry. He took a drink. The martini was crisp, sweet, like a summer rainshower. “This is what I’ve been working for. This is— Head Auror is everything I _want_.” 

Antoine stirred his drink. “And me? _Et ce que moi je veux_? _Mes besoins, mes désirs, mes rêves_?”

Draco felt like he was losing his mind. They had talked about this, about their plans, their goals. “What is it that you want?” Draco asked, reaching for Antoine’s hand. 

Finally, Antoine looked up and met Draco’s eyes. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just a flash of sadness across his face. “I want _you_ , Draco.” He laced their fingers together. “I want _us_.” 

“I do too,” Draco said softly, his gut twisting at the words. 

Antoine looked down at their hands, then kissed Draco’s cheek. “I’m sorry, love. I am so very proud of you. I know how hard you have worked for this moment. I think I am in a… _Comment tu le dis?_ ” He scrunched up his eyes and lips in a cartoonishly grumpy face. “ _Comme ça_ ,” he said, pointing. 

Draco laughed. “In a funk?”

“Yes. I am in a funk,” Antoine said, nodding. “And do you know what would help?”

“What?”

“Dancing. We need to dance the funk away.” Antoine finished his drink. “First, the restroom. Would you get us another round?”

“Of course,” Draco said, kissing Antoine’s cheek. Antoine walked toward the crowd, weaving between dancers in search of the loo, while Draco found his way back to the bar. A different (but remarkably similar) twink was on duty now, though he was too interested in making eyes at a strong-jawed shirtless man to notice anything else.

Someone slid onto the stool next to where Draco stood. Draco glanced at him from over his martini glass, drinking the remains of the gin. He took in the black leather band around the man’s bicep, the dark hair trailing from his chest to below his navel and into his black jeans. The bartender meandered over to them, looking annoyed. The man said, “I’ll take the cherry smash, thanks,” and Draco frowned at the familiar voice. Giving up on subtlety, Draco put his glass down and turned his head. He had to bite back a gasp. 

“It’s— _you_ ,” Draco uttered, rather lamely, but the shock rendered his mind useless. 

Harry Potter grinned. His eyes were bright and electric-green and lined in thick black kohl. “It’s me.” 

Draco did his best to avoid gawping. “Are you— _back_?” he managed to spit out. He cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. “Finally left that rock you’ve been living under?”

The stupid smile stayed on Potter’s face. “I wouldn’t say I’m back. Visiting, more like,” he said. Draco didn’t know where to look; a flowery vine tattoo wrapped around Potter’s forearm, stubble covered his sharp jaw, and his black curls sprang wild. _Potter_ looked wild, Draco thought.

Draco didn’t know what to say. What do you talk about, in a dark gay bar, with your formal school rival who saved the world and then disappeared off the face of the earth? Especially when said former rival looks simultaneously dangerous and delicious? 

Draco was closer to Potter than he’d been since hand-to-hand combat drills during Auror training years ago; he could _smell_ Potter, for god’s sake, that same petrichor-ozone scent from Potter’s magic and his fucking intoxicating musk. Draco realized he was actually _leaning_ toward Potter and quickly seated himself in the neighboring stool, a safe distance away.

“Can I buy you a drink? Looks like you’ve finished yours,” Potter supplied helpfully. 

Draco stared. “Er, yeah, that’d be—” But he couldn’t finish his sentence because Potter plucked out the cherry from his own tumbler and sucked it into his mouth. His lips were unnaturally red. Draco wondered idly if he was wearing lipstick to match the kohl, or if his mouth had always been that color.

Potter was graceful enough to ignore Draco’s stare—or, possibly, enjoyed it enough to allow it to continue—and waved down the bartender again. “Another one of these, please,” he said to the bartender, gesturing to Draco’s empty glass, “on my tab.”

Draco mumbled a thank you and Potter said, “Any time.” Like they were just mates out for a drink.

Draco looked up to find Antoine standing, arms crossed, behind Potter’s stool. Potter turned, following Draco’s eyes, and smiled beatifically. “Hi,” he said to Antoine, standing and nodding politely before turning back to Draco. “Nice to see you, Draco.” Potter touched Draco’s shoulder, softly and briefly, and then he was gone. 

“ _C’est qui, lui_?” Antoine asked, his tone perfectly measured. He tended toward jealousy in even the most innocent of circumstances, and Draco was not entirely certain how innocent that encounter had been. For him, at least. 

Draco felt dazed. He blinked, not sure if Potter, wild and chaotic, had even been real. “Oh, er. Someone I knew from school.” 

\\\\\

Back at home, Antoine—reliably tipsy after three drinks—stripped down to his undershirt and boxers and fell into bed with a happy sigh. He was curled up and asleep before Draco even turned off the lamp. 

Draco slid between the cool sheets and closed his eyes. He felt wrung out, exhausted, adrift. His shoulders were tense, and his mind bounced between the promotion and seeing Potter at the bar. Had he really been there? Surely not; as soon as he was spotted in the Wizarding world, reporters and fans would swarm him. There had easily been a hundred people in that bar, and not one had given Potter a second glance. 

And Potter’s behavior toward him! Friendly, bordering on flirtatious—no, it had all been a stress-induced hallucination.

But the magic around him, that petrichor smell… There was no mistaking it. No one’s magic felt like Potter’s. 

_Stop_ , Draco told himself. _So you saw Potter. Maybe he goes out to bars for a laugh, and no one recognizes him because of the eyeliner. People see what they want to see. Stop thinking about it._

Aside from Potter, though, his brain kept replaying Antoine’s reaction when Draco told him the Head Auror news. It wasn’t pride, or excitement, or love. If Draco was honest with himself, he didn’t think it was even concern. Antoine had been disappointed, dismayed. 

Draco knew he wasn’t home enough, but Antoine so rarely commented on it that Draco assumed he was fine on his own. Though Antoine had lived in France most of his life, he’d made friends in London when he moved here, so it wasn’t like he was lonely. And Draco made it a point to come home every single night, unlike some of his colleagues, who frequently transfigured their office couches into beds. 

When Draco _was_ home, he tried to really _be_ there, not only physically, but emotionally too. He and Antoine went out to dinner or bars, sometimes weekend trips; they went on walks around their little neighborhood, visited historical sites around London, or popped around to see friends. Maybe it was routine, but it was _their_ routine. And yes, their sex life had cooled down in recent years, but that happened to everyone.

God, how long had it actually been? Draco looked over at the lump of Antoine under the heavy quilt, thinking of his tawny skin, flushed from Draco’s stubble. Antoine’s lips, open in a moan. 

_Damn it_ , Draco thought, feeling himself harden at the images. He bit his lip and pressed his palm against the warm line of himself. It’d been a week, maybe longer, since he’d last brought himself off in the shower. He considered leaning over, waking Antoine, but… 

No, a shower would be better. He needed to relax. He slipped out of bed and walked across the cool hardwood floor to the ensuite, closing the door quietly before turning on the under-cabinet lights. For good measure, Draco shot a silencing spell at the door; he didn’t need to wake Antoine for this. 

He turned the shower on hot, and after stripping off his t-shirt and boxers, stepped in. Draco almost moaned at the hot water drumming against his shoulders. He reached up to the shelf built into the tile and grabbed one of his finer shampoos, from a bespoke apothecary, and the shower filled with the delicate smell of bamboo and violets as he lathered his hair. Draco took his time, aware of the building heat between his legs and enjoying the tease. He massaged his scalp, his neck, his shoulders, then stood beneath the showerhead and let the suds flow down his torso. He stretched his arms up and back, tension dissolving under the water’s unrelenting pressure, then squeezed his favorite soap into his palm. 

His nipples were peaked, and he rubbed them, a sharp inhale of breath at the sensation. He scraped his fingernails—gently, but firmly—down his sides, reveling in the controlled harshness. Draco ran a hand over his arse, feeling the shape of it, and then dipped a finger into his cleft, a tease over his hole. His eyes were closed, and he found himself imagining that perhaps he wasn’t alone. His own fine-boned hands replaced by wider, stronger fingers gripping his hipbones; a warm, solid body behind him, holding him close; a scruffed face against his neck, breathing over his ear, groaning—

Draco circled his cock with his fingers, breathing more quickly. He leaned back against the cool tile and his imaginary companion moved to his front. Cherry-red lips tight around his cock, blunt fingernails scraping down his stomach, just how he liked—his hips bucked forward—he could almost feel the wet curls his fingers would tangle in, the vibration of a moan around his cock. Draco bit his lip, his hand now stroking rapidly, vice-tight. He was lost, utterly, in the fantasy before him and so, _so_ close to coming and fuck— _fuck_ — He needed something else, something more, to push him over that edge— Fist tight around black curls, dark hands on his thighs, and— _oh god, yes_ —bright, dangerous green eyes looking up at him.

He came with a shuddering cry, fisting himself to the point of oversensitivity. He opened his eyes.

He was alone. 

_Fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antoine's French:
> 
>  _Et ce que moi je veux_? _Mes besoins, mes désirs, mes rêves_? = And what of what I want? My needs, my desires, my dreams?
> 
>  _Comment tu le dis?_ / _Comme ça._ = How do you say it? / Like this.
> 
>  _C’est qui, lui_? = Who is he?


	3. Palm to Palm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Antoine's French in the end notes again.

“Granger.” Draco sat in the fine leather armchair facing Hermione’s desk and pushed a takeout cup toward her. The cooling weather had threatened to sap the warmth from it, but Draco had keep casting heating charms all the way from his favorite cafe. 

Hermione took the lid off and blew on the surface of the steaming tea. “Morning, Draco,” she replied, then took a sip. “Mmm. Thank you.”

Draco nodded; he brought her tea at least once a week, and they ate lunch together whenever they were both free. Their friendship had blossomed over legal debates in Draco’s early days as an Auror. He liked her much more when she wasn’t surrounded by impulsive buffoons. 

“Hungover?” Hermione asked, eyeing him. “Where did you two go last night?”

“Somewhere new, Hawthorne Hardware. It was a nice place, a little leather bar with some hipster flavors. The drinks were overpriced, but we were in Shoreditch, so.” He paused, drank from his own cup. “Potter was there.”

Hermione’s face paled. “What?”

Draco shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “He bought me a drink, said it was good to see me, and took off. I didn’t think he got out much, seeing as how he’s missing, and all.” 

Her jaw clenched. “I don’t— Draco. You know that I don’t talk about Harry.” She looked away, back to the enormous stacks of parchment filed in neat piles around her desk. 

“Yes. I know that you don’t.” He waited a beat. “That you can’t.” 

Hermione’s eyes darted to his, then back to her desk. “He’s my friend.” 

Interesting, Draco thought. “Of course. Well, off to work. Crimes to solve.” He stood to leave, but Hermione grabbed his wrist. 

“Draco, don’t look for him.” Her face was grave. “Forget you saw him.”

Draco was silent for a moment. Surely, Granger must know that telling him not to do something would only make him want to do it more. 

He nodded. “Fair enough.”

\\\\\

As a child, Draco had loved fantastic tales, particularly the ones about Aurors. He admired their brash courage, their agile magic, and most especially the idea that there were people in the world who would do away with evildoers. Draco never felt unsafe as a child—he was doted on by his parents and relatives and nurses—but when he was very small, and the darkness in his bedroom seemed to grow claws and teeth, he often imagined a team of Aurors outside his door, ready to pounce at the first sign of danger. 

In time, Draco learned that there were many layers to evil, and that good people had darkness in them just as bad people could be good. His parents, whom he had always regarded as the pinnacle of morality, turned out to be quite wrong about almost everything, as far as ethics went. He began to see the darkness in his father’s eyes soon after he started Hogwarts. But his mother… 

Even as an adult, Draco had difficulty reconciling his mother’s actions, which were undeniably horrific, with the warm, caring woman she’d been. After Lucius’s death—how quickly one wasted away when one’s purpose was proven futile—his mother had poured all of her energy into Draco’s future. She urged him to study for his NEWTs, consulted tutors and special instructors to fill in the gaps missing from his seventh year education, spent long hours with him in the library or his study teaching him magical theory and wandless spellwork. Narcissa, freed from the Dark Lord’s rhetoric, dedicated herself to Draco’s wellbeing. Even then, Draco thought later, she must have known she didn’t have long to pass along what she knew of the world. 

Most of the students in Draco’s year at Hogwarts—Slytherin house excluded—took their NEWTs at Hogwarts in the autumn of 1998. It was Draco’s understanding that many of them lived there, from May to September, and divided their time between studying and rebuilding. Alumni came from around the globe to join in the efforts, and between them, the majority of the school was in stable condition by the time Ministry proctors arrived to conduct the exams. 

A new class of first years arrived, sailed their magical rowboats across the lake by candlelight, sat on a three-legged stool beneath an ancient pointed hat, and joined their new families at the freshly-constructed house tables. Slytherin’s table was quite sparse, given that many of the old families had fled the country or transferred their children to international schools. At all the tables, there were too many empty places where children should have been sitting. A fair crop of new ghosts had joined the festivities, gleefully terrifying the Muggleborn first-years. Overall, the 1998 Sorting Feast was a muted but hopeful and triumphant event.

Of course, Draco read about it in the Prophet the next day. He hadn’t dared set foot at Hogwarts since he had left for the final time that spring. Draco knew that he would never be worthy of returning. He doubted the school itself would allow him on the grounds, after his many betrayals.

Narcissa paid a very large amount of gold so the NEWT examiners would make themselves available that winter. Draco sat the exams by himself in a sterile room deep in the Ministry. They warned him that he would not be allowed to bring anything into the room, but he had not expected that to include his clothing. His anger and embarrassment threatened to boil over as he was forced to strip; the wizard who handed Draco a thin, grey robe looked more like a corpse than a human. Draco very seriously considered shrinking all of the proctors, putting them inside an inkwell, and shaking it up. He refrained, but only because he knew his mother would be quite disappointed. 

Draco passed all seven NEWTs. He wanted to write to Pansy and Greg and Theo and Blaise with the news, as they had always done with each other, but as none of them had taken their own NEWTs, he thought it would be a little crass. So he told his mother, who ordered champagne from their remaining house-elf, Tutty.

Draco applied for the Aurors half out of spite; the other half was a very quiet, secret hope, one that he barely let himself think about. Brash courage—agile magic—an oath of protection. He had spent his childhood on the wrong side of history; perhaps the rest of his life could make up for that. 

After a surprisingly frank interview with Head Auror Robards, Minister Shacklebolt, and a couple of Wizengamot members—at one point, Gertrude Eisenworth outright asked Draco if he planned on double-crossing the Ministry or starting any untoward cults, to which Draco replied in the negative—Draco was accepted. He would begin training with the other recruits in the summer. 

\\\\\

Six days a week, the Auror trainee class studied magical theory, defense, field Healing, curse-breaking, dueling, fistfighting, disguise, and whatever else Robards could think of to throw at them. The Auror force had been practically decimated after two brutal wars in twenty years, and Robards was staunchly determined that trainees would be well-versed in anything that would increase their odds of survival. 

It was a brutal, exhausting year, which Draco had expected. What he had not anticipated was the lack of vitriol and harassment targeted at him. Weasley had started off with barbs—to which Draco had never responded, as difficult as it was—but within a week it was apparent to everyone that the demands of the program would leave no time for old grudges. 

Potter never said a word to Draco. He never said much at all. He was less impulsive than he had been at school, more controlled, but always with an aura of power simmering barely below the surface. It was intoxicating to duel with him, and even more so when they fought hand to hand. Sweating, bleeding, alight with adrenaline—Potter never looked more alive. 

Draco steadfastly ignored the undeniable attraction he felt; it was useless and dangerous. He kept his head down and worked as hard as he could. There would be time for feelings in a few years.

\\\\\

All of the trainees took turns escorting new prisoners from their sentencing hearings to their cells. It was tiring work and not the least bit interesting; most of the recently-convicted were either annoyingly stoic or blubbering and begging for mercy. Once, a young man offered Draco a bribe—a pathetically small one, at that—to help him escape. Draco laughed him off.

Eighteen months into their training, it was Potter’s day on escort duty. He signed in at the Ministry security desk, took the lift to the courtrooms, and was seen leaving some time later with the prisoner, Jean LeFavre, in the standard-issue magic-restricting wrist cuffs and Arm Binding charms. They exited through the tunnel reserved for this precise purpose. 

Fifteen minutes later, an explosion beneath the London Underground left four Muggles in critical condition and several dozen injured. Muggle news outlets reported a gas pipe leak had been ignited by faulty wiring. No one was killed, they said; a committee was established to discuss outdated public works systems and the Underground was significantly less populated for several months.

Megan Harbinger, a Muggle Underground facilities worker, had to take several weeks of leave after she suffered a head injury in the chaos. She had no memory of the explosion or its aftermath; she awoke in hospital the day after the event. Her external injuries healed quickly and she went home with her wife in less than a week. 

From the time she woke up, Megan had strange dreams about a man in a long, red coat—or maybe a sort of poncho, or a cloak—and the doctors told her it was probably an amalgam of what she’d seen during the incident. At first, Megan protested, but it worried her wife, so she relented and stopped talking about it. For the rest of her life, Megan dreamed of the man, who sometimes just stared at her in horror, and other nights had something large in his arms, a suitcase, maybe, or a dog… 

In the Ministry of Magic, there is a very thin file bearing Megan Harbinger’s name, locked in a drawer in a hidden room in the Auror department. Inside the file, there is a single sheet of parchment.

Subject: Megan Elizabeth Harbinger  
Status: Muggle  
Age: 31  
Residence: 316 Essex Rd, London N1 3PB, United Kingdom  
Other Occupants: Wife, Lorraine Elena Tukes-Harbinger; Cat, Sir Pip Meowsington [Note: Cat is not actually Muggle nobility]

Incident date: 23 August 2001  
Incident time: Approx. 1400 hours

Subject was working in Underground and witnessed Auror Trainee Harry Potter’s burst of accidental magic. Subsequently, Subject witnessed the death of one Jean LeFavre. Subject was Stunned by Trainee Potter, then transported to Ministry of Magic by Head Auror Gawain Robards. Head Auror Robards performed standard Obliviate on Subject to remove memory of incident. Subject was transported to hospital by Police Liaison Lisa Sanders under disguise as a Muggle police officer. Liaison Sanders reported to hospital staff that Subject was found in rubble. -GR

Update 9 October 2001: Subject seems to have some faint memory of Trainee Potter, but Muggle healers have alternate explanation for memories. No further action required. -GR 

\\\\\

There was never anything published in the Prophet about the events of that day. LeFavre’s death was ruled accidental and brushed under the rug. His family was told he was killed in transport when he attempted to harm the Auror escort; the Auror acted in self defense. The family attempted to open an investigation, but it was denied by the Ministry. The Auror who had escorted him was never revealed to anyone—not the family, the Ministry, or even the greater Auror department. The events were held in confidence by just a handful of Ministry officials. 

But after that day, Harry Potter disappeared from the wizarding world.

\\\\\

“More wine?” Draco asked, and Antoine nodded. Draco poured red into his own glass, then Antoine’s. He took a bite of the pasta Antoine made, and lost himself staring into the candle flame between them.

“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” Antoine said, reaching for Draco’s hand over their dining room table. He’d laid the table with a fine linen cloth, immaculately-pressed napkins, and their best dishes. 

They planned the date night a few days ago, when Antoine commented that Draco hadn’t been home much lately, and Draco felt guilty and offered to take him out. “Let me cook for you,” Antoine had said, and Draco had agreed. 

Now he regretted it. 

But he nodded and forced a smile. “Me too.” 

He took another bite—the sauce was too sweet, almost cloying, but he would never say that—and looked at the flame again. 

“I’ve made your favorite for dessert, too. Tarte au citron.” Antoine grinned. They’d shared lemon tart on their first dinner date, feeding little forkfuls to each other, purposely being messy with the sweet whipped cream. 

Draco couldn’t imagine doing that tonight. “Mmm,” he said, feeling sick. 

His pocket vibrated and he retrieved his alert coin. COME NOW, it read in flashing gold letters. ANOTHER ONE. 

With relief—then guilt at the relief—Draco held up the coin. “I’m so sorry, but—”

Antoine looked at the coin with a bitterness that Draco had never seen before. “You have to go to work.” He met Draco’s gaze, his eyes flinty and hard. 

Draco nodded, frowning. “There’s been another murder,” he said. 

Antoine looked down, quiet for a moment, then stood. He waved his wand at their plates, Draco’s barely touched, and directed them to the kitchen. “Fine, then.” 

This sort of show was not the norm for Antoine. Draco stood too, his own anger rising. “I wouldn’t go if I didn’t have to,” he said, knowing it was a lie. 

Antoine reeled on him. “Oh? So you don’t enjoy it?”

“People are dying, Antoine. People are being murdered. And you think I enjoy—?”

“Don’t deny it,” Antoine spat. “You love the chase, the puzzle.”

Draco raised his hands, defensive. “It’s my job!”

“You love your job more than you love me.” Antoine turned away, arms crossed.

For a split second, Draco thought he might deny it instinctively, but nothing came out of his mouth. It was true; they both knew it. 

Antoine took a step away, then paused. He looked over his shoulder, his face blank. “Do you even want me anymore, Draco? Tu t'ennuies de moi?”

“I—” Draco started, trying to gather his thoughts. He took a breath, and Antoine looked away. “Of course I—” But he had waited too long. The answer should have been easy, should have spilled out of him. He stepped forward, put a hand on Antoine’s shoulder. He could fix this, they could keep trying—

“Touche-moi pas,” Antoine hissed, whipping around and tearing away from Draco’s grasp. His eyes were cold. “Go to work, Draco. They’re waiting for you.”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but it was true. He had to go. “I’ll come home as soon as I can. Please, let’s talk when I get back.”

Antoine shrugged. “Fine.” 

Draco watched him climb the stairs. He knew, deep down, that a good person would have gone after Antoine, would have stayed home until they talked everything out, until they were okay again. Until they fed each other lemon tart.

He picked up his bag and apparated away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tu t'ennuies de moi?_ = Are you bored/tired of me?
> 
>  _Touche-moi pas_. = Don't touch me.


	4. Like Fire and Powder

**THE DAILY PROPHET**

Thursday, 21 December 2007

**_MURDERER ON RAMPAGE: IS ANYONE SAFE?_ **

**__** _Geraldina Torchs_

_(London) — Six British wixes have been brutally slaughtered in their own homes in just over two years, and the killer remains at large._

_According to a Ministry inside source, George Reed, 89, was declared dead last night. Cause of death? Homicide by hemlock. Mr Reed somehow ingested the hemlock and was slowly paralyzed until he collapsed—which, unfortunately, appeared to coincide with his taking rubbish to the bins behind his home in Manchester._

_The same source confessed, when questioned by this writer, that Mr Reed’s murder was linked to five others, beginning with none other than Nicholas Aimes’s death in 2005. Mr Aimes, readers may recall, was a prominent Wizengamot member who was charged with abusing his children. Similarly, George Reed was accused of crimes against his grandchildren earlier this year; the emotional hearing was dismissed as a mistrial when a number of grievous procedural and clerical errors were uncovered._

_Ministry officials refused to comment on the serial murders. Head Auror Gawain Robards, historically hostile toward the press, charmed the Ministry lift to skip the floor to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement._

_What are the Aurors hiding? Has this deranged maniac slaughtered even more than our source let on? Is the public safe at all, or are we to be picked off one by one?_

_Only time will tell._

\\\\\

Draco awoke with a start. He was slouched down in his desk chair, still in the same robes as yesterday. A glance at the clock showed he had slept less than three hours. He shot a poisonous look at the magically-supplied sunrise in his fake office window, then Conjured a thick, black curtain over it.

The last day and a half had been absolute hell. Robards was on a rampage, determined to find out who’d leaked to the press, and he was suspicious of everyone from the Senior Aurors to the charmed brooms that did the housekeeping. He’d demanded a full sweep of the offices, magical and manual, in search of listening devices or Spying Eyes or anything else that could have recorded conversations. Robards kept setting fire to takeaway containers at random, alarming everyone in the vicinity. When he wasn’t yelling, he was muttering about _the media_ and _bloody young people_. It wasn’t pretty.

Draco hadn’t been home since the night Reed was killed. It seemed like weeks ago, but it had only been two days. He had gone to the scene, then straight to the office, only leaving the Ministry once to walk through the snow for curry. The cold air had been jarring, and even more surprising were the garlands decorating the lampposts and twinkling lights around the storefronts. He couldn’t be certain what day it was, but it seemed Christmas was near.

He slept in fitful bursts between running briefings and reading lab reports and, most of all, staring at the wall they’d converted into a giant memo board. Bits of parchment with scribbled words like _unicorn hair?_ and _CHECK DITTANY LEVELS_ were tacked up around gruesome crime scene photos. Someone had neatly laid out a timeline of events, and then someone else had written notes all over it in red ink. 

The answer was close. Draco just needed to _find_ it.

He’d ordered round-the-clock Auror details for all recent prison releases, anyone awaiting trial outside a cell, anyone acquitted of crimes against animals, children, women… Every sack of shit he could think of. It was fortunate they’d been recruiting like crazy since the last war, because he needed every last semi-capable wix standing guard. Draco would not let another person be killed, not without nabbing the murderer.

“ _This case needs to be solved_ ,” Robards had told him, what seemed to be years ago. Find the killer, get the Head Auror job. 

Draco would not allow it to slip through his fingers.

\\\\\

Late one night, or early one morning, Draco was rearranging autopsy reports in the bullpen. It had been some time since he had really slept, maybe a day, and he was beginning to feel the effects. His vision kept tunnelling and blurring, and he found himself drifting off during conversations.

 _No matter_ , he’d thought earlier today, or possibly yesterday. _Caffeine and catnaps will do it. We’re almost to the end._

They weren’t, he knew. His team were no closer to identifying the killer than they had been when Draco first pieced together that the murders were related. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. No leads, no witnesses. Fucking _nothing_.

Draco’s hand twitched and a full cup of tea tipped over onto the stack of reports. He watched, distantly, as it saturated the parchment, bleeding the ink into delicate black-brown rivers.

Then he sat down and felt a lump swell in his throat. He willed his eyes to dry.

“Er, sir?” It was Rosales, seated next to him. How long had they been there?

Draco cleared his throat. He waved his wand at the files, cleaning up the mess. “Rosales, I’m going home,” he said. “You’re in charge again.”

“Oh. It’s just us here, sir. But I’ll keep an eye on things.” They flashed him a reassuring smile. “And, er, it’s Saturday morning now.”

Draco frowned, wondering when everyone else had left, but nodded. He didn’t bother collecting his things from his office; he took the newly-repaired lift to the Atrium and flooed home. 

The house was quiet and cold. Draco checked the clock in the kitchen and saw it was past six in the morning. He was sure Antoine would be—

Draco looked back into the kitchen. The shelf that normally sagged under the weight of Antoine’s cookbooks was empty. 

He went upstairs to the library and, sure enough, half the bookshelves were bare. Antoine’s art prints were gone from the walls. Up another level, Antoine’s wardrobe was empty. The photos of his family were missing from his side table. His toothbrush was no longer beside the sink in the ensuite. 

Draco sank onto the bed, exhausted and numb. He felt like he was looking at facts in a book in his hands, but not reading the words. Words like _It’s been days and you never came home like you said you would_ and _You never owled him_ and _He never owled you, either_. Like _It’s been over for a while now_. 

Words like _Antoine is gone._

Words like _You are alone._

\\\\\

Draco didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, fully clothed and on top of the covers. He was disoriented when he woke, confused when he saw Antoine’s empty side of the bed. 

He stumbled to the bathroom, feeling grimy and wrung out, and took a quick shower. He hadn’t been able to spend long in the shower since his indulgent little fantasy; he never allowed himself to linger on the images his mind had conjured up that night, but they haunted him all the same. 

Toweling off, he took stock of the bathroom cabinets. Most everything was there, all of his custom-brewed colognes and tonics, his supply of Dreamless Sleep and Pepper Up. Antoine had never been the vindictive type. If it were Draco leaving, he’d have smashed all the little glass bottles in the sink. 

Distantly, he pondered how he had managed to get Antoine to stay for as long as he had, with thoughts like that one rattling around in his head.

Still naked, Draco meandered around the bedroom. Strange how the absence of a person could make a place feel so different. Now all that was left were the paintings Draco had brought out of the Malfoy vaults, his wardrobe of tailored robes and suits and fine, cashmere sweaters. Nothing meaningful. 

Ah, and there was the engraved watch Draco had given Antoine last Christmas, sitting on Draco’s valet. Again, Draco thought, he would have taken the expensive gifts. Or perhaps not—perhaps Antoine didn’t want to take anything that had been from Draco. No momentos, no reminders. Maybe that hurt more.

Draco pulled on a pair of joggers—his only pair, reserved for the rare occasion he was injured at work and had to stay at St Mungo’s, god knew he couldn’t bear to wear the horrible hospital-provided robes—and went down to the kitchen. He was starving. He glanced at the clock to measure how long it had been since he’d eaten, and found with surprise that it was five in the afternoon. 

He’d slept for ten hours straight. Double the sleep he usually got. 

Rubbing his eyes, Draco peered into the cooling cabinet. Containers of leftovers, labeled in Antoine’s tidy hand, were stacked on the shelves. Draco reached for the pasta they’d been eating the night of the last murder, a sense of irony heavy on his tongue, but found that he couldn’t bring himself to touch it. Sighing, he pulled a block of cheese from the drawer, grabbed a packet of crackers from the pantry, and hopped up to sit cross-legged on the countertop. There was a bottle of very old, very expensive whiskey nearby, probably what Antoine had been drinking when he decided to pack up and go, and a glass tumbler with a thin layer of dry amber at the bottom. Draco twisted off the cap and took a swig. 

He knew, objectively, how pathetic he must look: Eating on the counter, shirtless, drinking straight from the bottle. But Draco felt, for tonight, he could indulge himself in this pitiful behavior. There was no one around to see, no one to impress. He sliced cheese from the block and made himself cracker-cheese-sandwiches and washed them down with whiskey aged longer than he’d been alive. 

\\\\\

Several hours later, Draco was lying on his favorite sofa, attempting to read the French detective novel Antoine had left on the table. _It’s a clue_ , Draco had thought, then chuckled at himself. In real-life detective work, there were no obvious clues. No muddy bootprints or perfectly-clear fingerprints on wine glasses. Just slogging through shit, day in and day out. And paperwork. So much paperwork. 

Draco sighed and squinted at the book, words wriggling rudely around the pages. His spoken French was impeccable, thanks to his mother and then to Antoine, but reading French took more effort. And reading French while quite inebriated was proving to be a bit of a challenge. 

A few pages in, the lead detective faced a barrage of questions from the press, and Draco dropped the book on the floor. The stupid book was not helping his melancholy. 

He closed his eyes, traced a finger from his sternum to the waistband of his joggers. Kohl-lined green eyes floated to the top of his thoughts. He teased the hair between his hipbones, replaying Potter at the bar, sucking the cherry into his mouth, a challenge or a promise in his grin. 

_No_ , he thought, _I’m not doing this again_. 

He needed to get out of his house. When was the last time he’d had any fun? Weeks, months? And as he was newly single, apparently, what better than to go out to a bar? 

He dressed quickly, throwing on his coat over well-fitted black trousers and a black button-up, and—thinking apparition or floo might not be wise in his condition—called a Muggle cab. Draco gave the driver the address without much thought.

When the car pulled up to the boarded-up storefront, the driver looked quizzically at Draco. “This the right place, mate?”

Draco nodded, pulling what he hoped were the right notes out of his Muggle wallet. The driver made an impressed face and Draco was pleased to see that he’d overpaid. “Have a good night,” Draco said, trying not to trip on his way out of the car. 

Hawthorne Hardware was crowded, much more so than the weeknight when he and Antoine had visited. It seemed the place drew a fair crowd on Saturdays. Go-go dancers shimmied on raised platforms, men kissed and groped under the flashing lights, and Draco felt the bass in his chest. He left his coat at the door—it would probably be gone when he came back, but he didn’t care—and headed to the long bar.

“Vodka soda,” Draco half-yelled to the bartender, who eyed him for a moment before nodding. 

“One,” the bartender said, pulling a glass from under the bar. “You get one drink, then water.”

Draco shrugged, positive he could convince someone else here to buy his next drink, and then spotted one of the bartenders from the last time he’d been here. The one Potter had ordered from. 

“Hey!” he called, and the man turned. The bigger bartender made a face, and Draco knew he looked like a drunken arsehole. “Sorry,” he said to them both. “I just— I was here a few months ago, do you remember me?”

The man laughed. “I work five nights a week, honey. No.” He nodded at the other guy, who left to serve someone else, and started on Draco’s vodka soda.

“Okay, fine, but— I was here with my boyf—with my ex, and this bloke bought me a drink. Your height, curly black hair, eyeliner, darker skin? Green eyes?”

A shrug. “Yeah, I remember someone like that. He came a few times a week for a while, then sort of stopped showing up. I guess he found what he was looking for.” He slid Draco’s glass across the bartop, and Draco dropped too many Galleons next to it.

“But— It was Harry Potter, right?”

The bartender looked at Draco with pity. “No, sweetie, he was just some guy. Sorry to ruin your fantasy.” Someone down the bar waved for his attention and he walked away. Draco took a long drink from his glass, savoring the burn of the liquor in his throat. 

It _had_ been Potter that night, had to have been— But then, Antoine would have recognized him, wouldn’t he? He’d only been in France during the war, not bloody Antarctica, and Potter was well-known across Europe. But Antoine had asked who Potter was.

Draco finished the drink and left the bar in favor of the crowded dance floor. He was wearing too much clothing, judging by the jockstrap-and-harness crowd, but he felt a couple of pairs of eyes on him nonetheless. He nudged a few more shirt buttons open, exposing his chest, and moved to the heavy bump of the speakers, feeling more liquid than solid. He could smell sex, arousal, sweat, and he reveled in it. Someone pressed their hips to his arse, joined his swaying, and Draco leaned into the stranger. Another man came close to his front, smiling fiendishly, and then Draco was just a body, surrounded by other bodies, everyone overheated and lost.

At some point, the man behind him brought him another vodka soda—either he was a Seer or Draco had told him and didn’t remember—and then minutes or hours after that, Draco dragged his grinning frontside dance partner to a sticky, black-painted hallway and pushed him against the wall. Their kisses were sloppy, the man’s hands on Draco’s hips weren’t right, and Draco had a distinct feeling, sort of like he was eating a caramel hard candy when he wanted creme brulee. Something cheap and easy instead of decadent and slow.

Unsatisfying. Unsatiating. 

Hungry. 

He left the man there, standing in the disgusting hallway and pushed his way through the crowd to a patio. The chill felt incredible over his feverish skin and Draco took a moment to appreciate how very drunk he was. 

Then, crossing his fingers, he apparated home. Miraculously, he arrived in his entryway with all of his limbs and organs in their proper places, as far as he could tell.

He decided to drink a preventative hangover potion and then pour himself to bed with the rest of the bottle of whiskey. The entire night had been a pathetic waste of time. Potter, whether or not he had been at that bar, obviously did not want to be found. 

The bottle wasn’t on the counter next to the cracker wrappers and discarded cheese knife. Draco, aware that he’d drunk a fair amount of it before he left, thought he probably left the bottle by the sofa in the library. He kicked off his boots and shucked his shirt, leaving them in the middle of the kitch. Who was around to care? No one but him. 

Doing his best not to stumble too much, Draco bumped his way up the stairs, planning to have a piss and grab a hangover potion from the en suite one more level up. Then, he’d bring himself off to relieve that tension from the bar and curl up on his favorite sofa with a belly full of liquor and a head full of static fuzz. He would sleep as long as sleep would have him, then clean himself up and go back to work on Monday. A weekend of self-pity, and he’d be fine. 

He turned at the landing, palmed his half-hard cock through his jeans, but then something prickled at the back of his neck. Magic. Faint, but there. He froze. Took a breath, tried to part the curtain of liquor currently covering his brain. 

He was not alone. 

Fuck. 

_What a time to be murdered_ , he thought wryly. Completely off his tree, covered in someone else’s sweat, straight off a breakup. _Well. Best get it over with_. 

He discretely withdrew his wand from its wrist holster, gathered himself as much as he could, and turned, ready to duel with a serial killer.

Harry Fucking Potter lounged on his sofa, calmly sipping from a crystal tumbler. 

Draco dropped his wand. “What— _Potter—_?”

Potter refilled his glass from Draco’s very expensive whiskey. “Evening, Draco. I heard you were looking for me.” He waved a hand and Draco’s wand floated back up into his grasp. “Dropped that.”

Draco was too drunk, too worked up, too— Fuck, this wasn’t real. It wasn’t happening. He crossed the room and, without hesitation, shoved Potter’s shoulder until he was leaning against the back of the couch. Potter was solid, warm, heavy. He smiled at Draco, more threat than reassurance, and left his glass in midair, where it levitated obediently. 

Then Draco could smell it, smell _him_ , the sweet rain and sharp electricity of Potter’s magic, and Draco, who in the span of a single minute had gone from pleasantly drunk and aroused to accepting his own quickly-approaching death to total and complete shock, thought, _Fuck it. This might as well happen._

He tucked one knee between Potter’s leg and the arm of the couch and braced his hands behind Potter’s head. Potter, seeming unsurprised, grasped Draco’s bare hips while Draco finished straddling him. Draco grabbed Potter’s glass from where it hovered and downed the remainder of the liquid. He dropped the cup onto the rug.

Potter looked at him like a jaguar watches its prey, studying, waiting. He looked much the same as he had the night Draco saw him last: Something wild about him, his eyes burning green. This was not the same Potter that Draco had known in school or training; this man, beneath him, had unchained himself. There was no hesitation in Potter’s fingers as he trailed them over Draco’s bare back, no restraint as he leaned forward and, cradling Draco’s neck in a broad hand, kissed him.

Draco tasted the liquor in Potter’s mouth, let himself fall into the kiss. Even like this, he felt Potter’s power, raw and unbidden. A warning as much as a promise. 

But Potter tasted like rain, and Draco felt himself drowning. He let himself moan when Potter’s teeth found his nipples, and he sucked bruises into Potter’s sweet-tasting skin, and when Potter flipped him onto his back, Draco stripped his trousers and pants off in one movement. And, _fuck_ , they were there, right there, _real_. He felt the fabric of his favorite sofa against his naked back, the overwhelming pressure of Potter’s magic all around him and, god, _inside_ him, opening him up, and Potter’s tongue in his mouth, and the weight of Potter pressing him into the couch cushions, and— 

God, Draco could hardly breathe, just whined and sobbed as Potter fucked him. Potter hooked one of Draco’s knees around his shoulder and Draco wrapped the other one around Potter’s hips, urging him on, deeper, faster. Potter’s curls were sweat-stuck to his forehead. Draco brushed them back, tangling his fingers in, and he thought, _So much softer than I thought_ , and then he was gone again. All he could think was, _Yes, fuck, yes_ , and the sounds leaving his mouth were nowhere near words. 

Potter pulled out, kissed him deeply, and picked him up like a rag doll, positioning Draco over the arm of the couch. Draco had never been treated that way, and he wanted to be indignant, but then Potter was fucking him again and Draco could thrust his own heavy cock into the soft cushion. Potter pushed him downward, changing the angle, and then— Oh, _god_ , he was hitting Draco’s prostate with each unrelenting stroke.

Draco felt like he was losing his mind. Had lost it. He couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but bend over and be completely wrecked. “Fuck, Potter,” he moaned, and Potter laid open-mouthed kisses on his back, groaning. Potter paused for a second, added more lube, and Draco would tell himself later that wasn’t what did it, but it was—the feeling of being filled, fucked, and enveloped in magic that tasted like the second before a lightning strike—Draco was coming, keening. He felt tears in his eyes, phosphenes sparkling his vision. 

Potter pulled Draco up, carried him so his back was against the closest wall, and indignation be damned, Draco loved it. His legs were shaky, and he circled his arms around Potter’s neck, kissing him. Potter smiled against Draco’s mouth, then hoisted him up, wrapping Draco’s legs around his waist and lowering him back onto Potter’s eager cock. Potter seemed to hold him up with ease, and Draco hazily wondered if he was using magic to support some of the weight, but then he was lost again, Potter slamming into him. He was oversensitive, felt like his nerves were on fire, but at the same time it was _unbelievably_ good. 

Potter stroked his cheek, kissed his collarbone. “So good,” he murmured into Draco’s chest, his strokes picking up intensity. Draco felt sweat drip down his back as he clung to Potter’s sturdy frame, reveling in the pleasure-pain radiating from between his hips. Then Potter buried himself all the way inside Draco and stilled, jerking and groaning, and Draco moaned at the look of total adoration on Potter’s face as he came. 

They slid to the floor (Draco decided there was definitely magic at play, given the cushiony feeling of the hardwood floors). Potter trailed little kisses over Draco’s shoulders. Draco, thoroughly fucked out and still half-drunk, allowed Potter to clean him up with a conjured cloth. They stayed there for a while, tangled up in each other, Potter’s hands drifting over Draco’s skin. Draco felt surrounded by Potter, the smells of sandalwood and soap and petrichor clinging to him. He knew, distantly, that tonight had been very strange, that he needed to ask Potter what the fuck he was doing there, where he’d been all these years. But, he hedged, he’d allowed himself this weekend of self-indulgence, and what was this if not indulgent? 

Eventually, Draco heaved himself up and walked over their abandoned clothes back to the couch. He glanced over his shoulder at Potter, who gestured at the sofa, and it expanded outward into a sort of day bed. Draco summoned a blanket from the bedroom and Potter curled around him, warm against his back. The sofa would never be the same—one couldn’t simply expand antique magical furniture and expect it to just conform to the demands without a fuss—but, as Draco felt his mind slipping, content, he decided the new form was better than the old one had ever been. 


	5. Bitter Conduct

Draco’s wand buzzed somewhere nearby, the sound wildly irritating in his half-asleep state. He put his hand out without opening his eyes and his wand shot to his palm. He waved it in the general direction of the fireplace, thinking he should open up the floo for calls instead of this ridiculous and annoying screening process.

“Draco?” came Granger’s voice from the grate. He looked over, blinking in the midday light. “Draco, are you there?”

“Yes,” he croaked, “just a moment.” His mouth tasted foul and he was sore all over and he was—naked in the library? 

The previous night’s memories came back in a deluge, so jarring Draco felt a little dizzy. He sat up and took a deep breath. He summoned a glass of water and sipped it slowly, trying not to let the thoughts of Potter overwhelm him.

“Draco, I’m coming through,” said Granger.

“Don’t! Don’t, I’m—” But his protests were pointless as the fire _whooshed_ and Granger stepped out, brushing herself off. Draco hastily pulled the blanket over his lap.

“You’re what? Hungover?” She looked him over, worry in her face.

“I was going to say _indecent_ ,” Draco sniffed, drawing the blanket around him. 

Granger walked closer, pursing her lips. “You look awful. What—?” She seemed to add up the bruises on his neck, the stubble burn all over his chest, his flagrant nudity. “Ah.” 

Draco hadn’t the faintest idea what to say to her. _Your best mate came round last night and fucked my brain out of my skull_ didn’t quite seem to encapsulate it all. He sipped his water, watching her watch him, and decided not to offer any explanation. 

Granger sighed, nudged the empty whiskey bottle with her stockinged toe. “Where’s Antoine?”

A gut-twisting pain seared through Draco’s middle. He swallowed it and shrugged. “Gone.”

“Gone?” Granger’s face went from pity to alarm. “When?”

“I don’t exactly know. A couple of days ago. I’ve been—working.” Draco couldn’t look at her anymore. He cast a teeth-cleaning charm on himself, and in the process noticed finger-shaped bruises on his forearm. “I just came home, er.” He tried to shape the muddled time into days. “Friday night.”

“Oh, Draco.” 

“Stop. I don’t want whatever that is. _Pity_.” 

“Fine.” Hermione waved her wand and the room neatened itself, rug straightening out, whiskey bottle trotting downstairs to the kitchen. Draco smirked as Potter’s crystal tumbler from the night before moved back to the side table it’d come from. That had been real, at least. Draco never used that set. 

She turned back to him. “Stop smiling and go get dressed.”

“Dressed? For what?”

Granger gave him a long look. “It’s Christmas.”

Draco frowned, trying to count the days backward. “It’s not.”

“It is,” she said. “And since you’re clearly not fit to be left alone, you’re coming to mine for dinner.”

“I’d really rather—” But he stopped at the look on her face. Chillingly stern. She’d make a terrifying mother one day. As it was, Granger evoked McGonagall rather too well. He sighed. “Alright.”

Just to spite her, he dropped the blanket and walked up the stairs starkers. She shot a stinging hex at his bum.

\\\\\

Weasley was belting out Christmas carols in the kitchen as he cooked. Draco wished he’d grabbed another hangover potion before Granger had dragged him back across the floo, but he settled for the glass of red Weasley floated over to him. 

“Happy Christmas, mate! Glad you could make it!” Weasley was always annoyingly cheerful around the holidays, and he hit peak jolliness during the Christmas cooking. It all fit him rather well; with his ruddy complexion and rounding belly, he looked more like Father Christmas every year. Draco looked forward to Weasley’s hair going white. The teasing would be excellent. 

Draco opted to sit in the soft armchair rather than the wooden barstools as his arse was still quite sore from the previous evening’s activities. He sipped the wine slowly, half-listening as Hermione talked about a new case she was set to argue in a few weeks. Most of his mind, however, was stuck on the puzzle of Harry Potter. 

How had Potter known Draco asked about him? How the _fuck_ had he gotten into Draco’s house, which was fully-warded to the Auror standard and then some? Why had Potter been missing for five years, only to break into Draco’s home, fuck him within an inch of his life, and leave? What was his game?

“You’re not even listening anymore, are you?” Granger kicked his shin. 

“No,” Draco admitted. There was no point in lying to Granger. She was only angrier once she figured it out. 

She huffed a sigh. “Alright. Well. Tell me about your life, then. Why have you lost a stone, whose dental records are on file in your shoulder, and why are you working so much you didn’t notice your fiance left you?”

Weasley rounded the corner with a charcuterie board. “Oh, is that why Antoine’s not here? Too bad. Nice bloke.”

Draco resisted the urge to hex them both. “Granger, there is a serial killer on the loose, as you bloody well know. Robards has been up my arse to catch them since the _Prophet_ picked up the story.”

“Well, that’s the weight loss and the work...” She took a cube of cheese from Weasley’s platter. 

He looked at her, not saying a word. 

Weasley, always perceptive, said, “Who’s the new one, then?”

Granger stared back at Draco. She was confused for a moment, and then— “No.”

Draco shrugged and sipped his wine. 

“No. _No_.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

Weasley looked between them. “I hate when you two do this. Come on, tell me.”

“It’s—” Granger made a choking sound. “He and—” This time she gagged, wheezed.

Draco nodded. “Interesting. That’s what I thought.”

Ron frowned. “You alright?” he asked Hermione, who was holding her throat and breathing heavily. 

She nodded. She looked furious. “Draco Malfoy, you fucking bastard. You _would_ sleep with the one person that I ca—” Again, she cut off, making a hacking sound.

“Oh my god.” Ron whipped his head around to Draco. “Oh my god. No. What? No. It’s impossible. Ha-agkh—” Ron, too, was stifled by his own throat.

“I imagined both of you would be under the Vow,” Draco said. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one with these effects, though. Does it hurt when _I_ talk about him?”

Hermione seethed at him. Ron clenched his teeth.

“What if I say his name? Harry Po—” 

Abruptly, Hermione launched at him and smashed a throw pillow on his face. “Stop it. I’m not playing this game. You’re going to have to keep this little adventure to yourself.” She slapped his shoulder lightly. “You horrible man.”

Ron took a long swig of wine. “This is way too much for me. I’m going back to the kitchen.”

\\\\\

They gorged themselves on Ron’s cooking, drank another bottle of wine, and Draco laid himself on the floor in front of the fireplace, holding his stomach. He felt properly full for the first time in a long time. 

Hermione was doing a crossword puzzle on the couch, humming along to the wireless. Ron was asleep next to her, head laid back against the cushion, mouth wide open. 

Draco allowed himself to feel safe here, with them, to let down his guard for a little while. He was so warm, so comfortable in the old jumper he’d thrown on earlier. No one was watching him. 

\\\\\

He woke up to find the fire had settled down to embers. Hermione was laying next to him on the rug. Ron was gone. 

“I sent him to bed,” she said, following Draco’s gaze. “It’s late.”

Draco sat up, stretching. He was not at all accustomed to sleeping on floors and his back clearly disapproved. “I’ll head out,” he said. “Thank you for dinner.”

Hermione touched his arm. There was something unreadable in her dark eyes, the reflection of the dying fire making her face more ominous. “Draco. I know that you...understand what’s happening here.” Her face contorted as she attempted to speak around the Vow, and she motioned at her neck. “There’s not… Mm.” She grimaced. 

“It’s fine, Granger. I get it.” There was so much he didn’t know, so many pieces of the puzzle missing, but this made sense: Potter needed absolute trust that no one would betray his whereabouts, so he’d asked his friends to take an Unbreakable Vow. A little extreme, but what was Potter if not the picture of outrageous overkill? 

An image of Potter from last night surfaced in Draco’s mind, all feral green eyes and wicked smile. Embarrassingly, Draco’s cock twitched in his pants. He hoped to god Granger hadn’t noticed.

“It’s _more_ ,” she said, sounding strangled. “It’s— Ugh. Just be careful, Draco.”

“Sure.” He was not here for a sexual health lecture. 

“Not— I mean look out for yourself. Get away if you need to.”

“Granger, this is hardly the time for a vacation,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll practice self care when th—”

“It’s like you’re purposely stupid sometimes.” Granger ran a hand over her face. “ _Please_ , Draco. Be _careful_.”

Draco looked at her, not understanding. “I— I’ll try.” 

She sighed and stood, helping Draco up. “Alright. Go home and get some sleep. Happy Christmas, Draco.”

“Happy Christmas, Granger.” He wrapped her in a hug, breathing in the sweet, coconut-coffee smell of her hair. 

Draco flooed home, but he took one look at the half-empty library shelves and the expanded couch and decided it was too much. He considered going back to Granger’s—he had stayed over before and their guest bed was tolerable—but the thought of more of Granger’s pity was unbearable. Finally, he threw a dash of floo powder in the grate and said, “Ministry of Magic.” 

\\\\\

Two days’ absence, even over a weekend, had resulted in a sizeable stack of paperwork and memos on Draco’s desk, which he promptly shoved to a corner. He blacked out his office windows (which were showing a trite night meadow) and cast a few dozen _lumos_ orbs to light the space. There was someone working in the bullpen, yet another Junior Auror he didn’t know, so he duplicated the bulletin wall in his office, piece by piece, re-reading every lab report, poring over the maps. 

If he could look at this case with new eyes, he knew he could solve it. He was too close to the erumpent, as it were. He’d been trying for too long. Time to go back to the beginning.

Nicholas Aimes was killed in June 2005, Bruce Bennington in October of the same year, and Gella Pitts in late December. Arturo Bridesworth was found dead by his wife in May 2006, then Blakely in July 2007, and finally George Reed in October, two months ago. There was no pattern, no repeating month or amount of time. All six wixes were criminals, but three had served time in prison, two had avoided serious sentences, and Pitts had never even been arrested. The only common thread was that every one of them had victimized someone vulnerable: Children, Squibs, animals, women. 

Draco had known for a while that they were looking for a vigilante sort. The killer clearly chose their prey based on a strong sense of justice, a need to protect or avenge those who had been hurt. Draco had recruited a couple of mind Healers and even consulted with a muggle psychologist who was married to a Junior Auror. They’d all agreed that the pattern pointed toward someone who believed they were doing the right thing. The psychologist had suggested that the killer might be a member of a vulnerable group themself, or had a history of significant trauma. 

He poured himself a third cup of tea, and ordered up a pensieve and a croissant. Nibbling on the croissant, he picked out a handful of interviews to watch in the pensieve—a gardener who’d been not fifteen feet away when Pitts was killed, Bridesworth’s wife, Reed’s garbage collector, a few others. He’d watched them all before—the garbage collector was Draco’s own memory—but he needed to see them again, to go back in time. 

They were, of course, all useless. Not a single person had anything of substance to say. No one saw anything, heard anything. Not a floo-whoosh, not the crack of apparition, no suspicious footsteps, nothing. Draco shuffled through each person’s memory analysis, but St Mungo’s hadn’t found any evidence of recent Obliviates in any of the ninety or so witnesses. 

Draco sent the pensieve back to storage, frustrated, then pulled it back again. He sorted through the memory vials until he found his own from the Pitts murder scene. 

He’d been freshly promoted to Senior Auror, and when the call came in from Pitts’s house elf, Robards had sent Draco to the scene to direct the initial investigation. Draco walked through that day in the pensieve, shadowing his past self: The garden gate was still locked, the house in immaculate order. No signs of a break-in, magical or otherwise. Pitts was sitting in her ornate dining room, slumped over onto the table. Her skin was a sickly red-purple; later analysis showed she’d consumed a large amount of cyanide with her soup. 

Pitts’s house elf, Marshy, was calm and factual in her testimony, but she was very clearly rattled. Draco had ensured she was treated with utmost respect, images of Dobby haunting him. Her interview took place in her cupboard, where she held onto a blanket she’d cobbled together from rags and rocked herself back and forth. Marshy refused tea, saying she’d let her mistress die, so she didn’t deserve nice things anymore. 

Draco had asked Granger for help later that day, and Granger had secured Marshy a position in the Hogwarts kitchen. Draco and Granger had transported her personally, and Granger introduced her to other house elves she knew around the school. Draco would never, ever admit it to anyone, especially to Granger, but that had been the day he acknowledged that he would never be free of her friendship. 

The memory moved on around him as he stood there staring at Marshy in her cupboard. Grey fog formed at the edge of the room as memory-Draco walked away from her, but present-Draco stayed, watching her hug her blanket once the Aurors’ eyes were off her. She closed her eyes and sobbed, silently. Draco looked away. She was a memory, but even still, he wanted to give her privacy to mourn. 

He started the memory over again, following himself in through the garden, but this time falling back to watch the rest of the team’s movements around the house. Two Ward Specialists were casting to detect ward breaches, two Juniors photographed Pitts’ body, a handful of people picked through the surrounding rooms looking for stray hairs, traces of magic, or anything that could possibly indicate the presence of another person. 

The drawing room windows were occluded with gray fog, since Draco hadn’t been looking through them the day of the murder. But Draco wondered, as he stared there, if the murderer ever came back. If they ever admired their handiwork, read the _Prophet_ articles with a grin. Many serial killers enjoyed reading about themselves, saw it as part of the game. But, somehow, Draco imagined that this one did not. The deaths seemed almost dutiful; it was as if the killer performed the murders quickly, efficiently, without a chance of survival. More than one victim had been found in their own doorway, like the murderer had knocked, killed them, and left. There didn’t seem to be a sense of enjoyment or gratification. Just...death.

Draco withdrew from the memory and deposited it back in its vial. He rubbed at his eyes and yawned. He’d been at the office for hours, and left Granger’s late. Hearing Granger’s voice in his head, Draco reluctantly laid down on his office couch and pulled the soft blanket around himself. _I’ll lay here for a moment. To prove that I’m not tired_ , he thought. He was asleep minutes later. 

\\\\\

Rosales peeked their head into Draco’s office. They had slowly become the hero of the Junior Aurors, and seemed to be the least afraid of him. “Hullo, sir. Kenny is collecting lunch orders, if you’d like something. And…” They stepped through the door, apparently feeling as though Draco was up for company. “This came in a second ago, thought you’d like to go through it.” 

Taking the sheaf of parchment from them, Draco frowned. “Toxicology from Bridesworth? Surely we already had this?” He looked up at the crowded wall, scanning for the report.

“Yes. I asked them to redo it, sir,” Rosales said, their face set resolutely. “The first report came from Friar Fontin’s lab, and you’ll remember there was that incident with the, er, pixies—?”

“Ah.” Draco nodded. “Yes, I recall. Good work, Rosales.” He flipped to the first page and started reading, then paused. “I’ll have a falafel wrap,” he added. “Tell Wadsworth I’ll pay for lunch. Send the bill to my vault.” 

Rosales smiled. “That’s nice of you.” 

“Well. Don’t read into it.” He turned back to the papers, and Rosales took that as their cue to leave.

\\\\\

He was close. So goddamn _close_. 

It was after hours again, Draco’s eyes straining in the low light, staring at the case wall. 

The wall stared back, mocking him. 

A list of causes of death had been added centrally: Stabbing, _Avada Kedavra_ (undetected), cyanide, _Crinis Laqueus_ , stabbing, hemlock. Nothing especially messy, but the killer didn’t seem to mind a bit of blood, either. Some magic, two knife-wounds, and, most interestingly, two old-fashioned poisons. 

But no _potions_. Both hemlock and cyanide were easy enough that even Muggles could make them, but the killer had never used a proper potion, even though it might have been easier and less detectable. 

Draco wanted to follow that, wanted to tug on that rope in his mind, but he couldn’t connect it to anything. So they didn’t use potions—maybe they were pants at brewing. Lots of people were.

He pictured Longbottom exploding a cauldron of Syrup of Hellebore, and snorted when that transformed to Longbottom casting an undetectable _Avada Kedavra_. Unlikely. 

_Bad at potions?_ he scrawled on a slip of parchment, then stuck it to the board. 

He leaned back in his desk chair and closed his eyes. He was so tired. So, so tired. Of this case, of his life, all of it. Once this was all over, Draco decided he would take a holiday. Somewhere warm, with plenty of nice-looking men wearing very little clothing. Slushy, boozy drinks and sand and _pizza_. God, Draco wanted some good pizza. 

Stomach rumbling, he opened his tired eyes, and there was the case wall. Still. 

Rage boiled, unbidden, at the sight. The reports, the photos, the timelines—all of it was shit. Pure shit. Draco would never find the fucking murderer, never end this case. He would never prove his worth to anyone, not Robards or Shacklebolt or his dead mum. This fucking case wall would stay up in his tiny office, haunting him, until the day he died. 

In a fit of frustration, Draco slammed his fist into the wall; the impact reverberated to his shoulder, jarring his elbow, and only managed to dent a press release. Pain shot through his hand, and he stood back, panting. That had been very, very stupid. He looked at his hand: The knuckles were split, bleeding, and upon attempting to bend his fingers, Draco surmised he had broken at least two of them. 

Idiotic. Juvenile. 

He took one last look at the bloodied wall, but it didn’t care about him nearly as much as he cared about it. Sighing, Draco elevated his hand and turned away. It was time to go home. 

\\\\\

On the way down the lift to the Atrium, Draco resolved to call Granger when he got home and ask her to fix his hand. He was perfectly adequate at healing spells on others, but not great at performing them on himself, and he’d broken his wand hand—not ideal for a field Auror. 

The floo journey was painful, which Draco took as penance for his idiocy. He dusted himself off carefully once he was in his library again, and turned to grab a pinch of powder to call Granger, but then he did a double take. 

Potter was there, reading _Travail soigné_ , Antoine’s French crime novel. He lounged on the sofa-turned-bed, looking for all the world like he belonged there, in jeans and an old t-shirt.

“Evening,” he said, glancing up at Draco, then went back to his book.

Draco was sure his brain would short-circuit. The throbbing pain in his hand grounded him enough to convince himself he wasn’t dreaming. He’d thought that Potter wouldn’t come back; after all, the only two people who knew his whereabouts were sworn to secrecy. Draco assumed that if he _had_ tried to tell anyone besides Granger and Weasley that he’d seen Potter, everyone would write him off as mad.

And yet. 

Draco plopped himself on the not-sofa, a respectable distance from Potter. “I have questions, but first, can you fix this?” He gestured at his swollen hand. The blood had caked where it dripped down his palm. 

Potter grimaced. “Yeesh. Should I see the other guy?”

“The other guy is a wall, so no. Can you, or should I call Granger?”

Potter beckoned him closer. “Come here.” Draco hated being called like a dog, but he was in a fair amount of pain, so he scooted nearer to Potter. Potter gently poked around Draco’s hand, a small frown on his face. “Alright. This isn’t going to feel great.” Draco steeled himself as Potter flicked his hand side to side. 

The result was an uncomfortably strange mix of bones grinding themselves back together and the heady, powerful feeling of Potter’s magic. Draco felt like he’d been caught in a summer storm. He hated how much he loved the heat of it, the wet-earth smell, the dropping air pressure, the overwhelming sense of powerlessness. 

Potter tapped the back of Draco’s hand and the blood vanished. “There we are. Good as new.” He grinned. 

Draco bit his lip. He considered himself to be a relatively intelligent, rational person. However, he very much wanted to ignore the ‘how do you keep breaking into my home’ conversation, as well as the ‘where have you been for half a decade and why are your friends under a Vow,’ and skip right to the fucking. 

Because, he thought, there would definitely be more fucking. 

Potter’s smile turned devilish. “Something on your mind, Draco?”

 _Draco_. Potter said it casually, like he owned it. Like he owned _him_. 

Abruptly, Draco pushed himself away from Potter, giving himself a good three feet of breathing room. There. That was better. He took a deep breath. “Potter, seeing as how you’ve quite recently had your cock in my arse, _and_ how you’ve ruined my favorite couch, I think you owe me some answers.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Are we doing this now, then?”

“Yes.” Draco moved another foot away, so he was up against the opposite arm. Just a precaution. “First, how the fuck are you getting in here? My wards didn’t even alarm.”

Potter looked back to the book and shrugged. “You’re not as tricky as you think you are,” he said simply. 

Draco fumed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means your wards were intricate, but not complicated. I keyed myself in.” 

“You keyed— That’s impossible. The house is loyal to me.” 

“Mmh,” Potter replied, turning a page. He was halfway through the book. “Any other questions?”

“You read French?” Draco specifically remembered that Potter was absolute shite at their foreign language courses in Auror training. 

“Nope.” He tapped his temple. “Good at Translation Charms, though.”

“Those are barely quick enough to use for talking, let alone readi—”

“Alright, then, I’m _very_ good at them.” 

Draco paused. His earlier frustration had not abated. 

Harry looked over at him, a question in his expression. He slid a hand across the cushions, leaning until he was touching Draco’s thigh. “Anything else?

Draco slapped his hand. “What are you _doing_ here?”

“I thought that was obvious.” 

“You broke into my home for sex? Twice?”

“Just this time. The first time was… Curiosity, I guess. The sex was _your_ idea.” Potter bent the corner of the page he was on.“This book is not at _all_ realistic,” he murmured. 

“You’re not even an Aur— Curiosity?” Draco didn’t know where to take this conversation. The pressing erection in his lap was not helping. 

Potter eyed his bulge. “You’re _sure_ you want to keep on this?”

“What were you _curious_ about?” Draco pressed the heel of his newly-mended hand against his cock.

“You.” Potter stared at him, eyes hot and bright. He smirked. 

“Me? And—and how did you know I was asking about you? And where have you _been_?”

“Enough,” Potter said. He crawled the pathetically-small distance between them and moved Draco over, away from the sofa arm, then straddled him. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Draco was irritated and exhausted and overwhelmed and he had a lap full of Harry Potter, who smelled like thunder and musk. He supposed he ought to learn to take what he was given sometimes. Potter ground against him and Draco groaned, his hands gliding under Potter’s t-shirt and up his back. Draco pulled him closer, downward, and _god_ , he’d never kissed anyone like this, never _been_ kissed like this, like it was a competition, a duel, a _fistfight_. 

Potter yanked at Draco’s hair and drew his head back, exposing his neck, and sucked a mark under Draco’s jaw. It seemed like Potter had a thing for marking him. 

Draco had a thing for it too. 

He pinched Potter’s chin, slotted their mouths back together, worked on mapping Potter’s teeth with his tongue. Potter bit his lip, sucked it better. He started to unbutton Draco’s shirt, but Draco kept pulling him closer, so Potter snarled and then Draco’s clothes were gone. 

“Hey!” he said, looking down. “Where’ve you— _Mm—_ ” Potter Vanished his own clothes before Draco could finish his sentence. Potter’s cock was leaking, and he circled them together in his grasp, smearing his precome over Draco’s exposed head. 

“Something wrong?” Potter asked against Draco’s lips, slowly pumping their cocks. 

“ _Fuck_.” 

“Yeah.” 

Potter kept stroking, achingly slowly, as he watched Draco’s face. Draco turned his head, feeling too much on display, but Potter gripped his chin and faced him forward. “I want to see you,” he said, voice low. He brushed his thumb against Draco’s lower lip. Draco, feeling rather more courageous than usual, stuck out his tongue and licked Potter’s thumb from the knuckle to the end, then took it in his mouth and sucked. 

“Is that what you like?” Potter asked, and Draco nodded.

Potter moved away. Draco immediately missed his warmth. He slid onto the floor, kneeling before Potter, and pressed his face into Potter’s groin, inhaling. He felt high on the intoxicating smell of him, the feeling of Potter’s heavy cock against his cheek. Potter threaded his fingers through Draco’s hair, not tight, just enough for Draco to feel the pressure in his scalp. 

Draco’s eyes fell closed as he kissed the base, licked a stripe up the thick vein on the underside. Potter hissed in a breath and his grip on Draco’s hair tightened. Draco stroked the bead of precome down Potter’s length and ducked his head to mouth at Potter’s balls. Potter groaned above him; Draco smirked and sucked, wrapping his hands around Potter’s hips. 

He drew away and knee-walked backward. Potter followed. Draco spun Potter around and pushed him over the arm of the couch. It was Potter’s turn to be on display. 

Potter’s arse was picture-perfect, all muscled cheeks and sparse black hair. Draco spread him open and Potter arched back, searching for him. 

Draco murmured a cleaning charm. Potter shivered at the chill of the spell, his tight hole clenching. Normally, Draco would warn someone before doing that, but he didn’t feel like it tonight. 

He nipped at Potter’s arse cheek and stroked a gentle finger over his hole, back and forth. Not pressing in, just a tease of sensation. He licked on either side of Potter’s entrance and Potter breathed a little whine. A powerful feeling shot through Draco, straight to his cock, and he closed his mouth over Potter’s hole, laving it with his tongue. He spent a few moments caressing the soft furls before opening Potter up, widening him. Potter was panting out shaking breaths, pushing backwards. He twisted around enough to get a hand on the back of Draco’s head, pressing Draco’s face into his arse. Draco groaned into him, pushing in a finger next to his tongue, barely grazing the soft nub of nerves. 

Potter thrust forward, searching for friction. Draco added another finger. He moved his head away, wiping the saliva off of his face, and pumped his fingers, brushing Potter’s prostate every few strokes. He spread his fingers apart, twisting them around, easing Potter open.

Potter had his face in the couch, one arm supporting his weight and the other circled tight around his cock. He was beautiful, taught, his dark skin slick with sweat, Draco’s fingers buried inside him. He was moaning, the sound going high-pitched when Draco swirled a finger around his prostate. 

Draco needed more. 

He pulled his fingers out, heat surging through him at the sight of Potter’s hole fluttering at the absence. 

“Lube,” Draco said roughly, holding his hand out. 

His palm filled with warm, clear jelly, which he smeared over his cock and inside Potter’s rim. Potter adjusted himself, balancing on his elbows, while Draco muttered a protection spell. Draco lined up the tip of his cock—aching, harder than he’d ever been, he might actually die—and pressed in as slowly as he could. Potter didn’t even cringe, just exhaled until Draco stopped halfway and pulled out. Potter looked back at him, a question, and then Draco snapped his hips forward, burying himself.

Potter cried out, and for a second Draco was worried he’d hurt him, but when he withdrew, Potter keened, his arse clenching, his back arching. Draco ran a palm down Potter’s back, wishing he could live in the valley between his shoulder blades. He buried himself again, started a steady rhythm, and tried not to think about all the feelings in his belly. 

Eventually, Draco pulled Potter up, needing more contact. Potter kissed him, and Draco pushed Potter’s sweat-matted curls off his forehead, and it all felt very brand-new. Draco sat on the couch and Potter climbed on top of him, lowering himself onto Draco, laying his head on Draco’s shoulder as they rocked together. 

Draco drank the moans from Potter’s mouth and let his hands roam Potter’s overheated skin, the ridge of his spine and the rasp of his thigh hair, until he came, half-delirious with it. Potter stroked his own cock, shot his come onto Draco’s belly with a groan, and Draco kissed him lazily, drunk on him. 


	6. As They Kiss, Consume

Draco woke to the sound of rain pattering against the window panes. Grey light softened the morning. For a moment, the world was only the warm duvet and the rain and the softness of waking.

A sound came from behind him and he rolled over. Potter was still there, naked against Draco’s grey-striped sheets, covers thrown off. He was stirring too, his eyes blinking open. A little smile pulled against his lips when he saw Draco watching him. 

“Morning,” Potter mumbled, his voice sleep-soft. He reached out and lazily trailed his fingers down Draco’s chest. 

“You’re still here?” Draco asked.

Potter chuckled. “I could leave, if you like.” 

“No! No, I just— Er.” Draco dropped onto his back. “Erm. Good morning.”

Potter pulled up the duvet and slid inside, curling against Draco’s side. He kissed Draco’s chin. How was Potter so bloody warm? He was horrible. 

And lovely. 

“I’ll make us breakfast, I suppose,” Draco said, trying to sound dignified. 

“Stay here with me awhile first.” 

Draco huffed and turned to face Potter. They were both naked, chest to chest, and yes, they’d had sex twice now (thrice, if you counted last night’s second round), but they hadn’t been this kind of intimate. Draco could see the little flecks of brown and gold in Potter’s irises, the tiny stray hairs a little out of alignment with the shape of his eyebrows, the nearly-invisible freckles filling the spaces between the bigger ones. 

And he _smelled_ good, damn it all. With the rain outside and Potter this close, Draco felt like he was standing on a cliff, watching a storm roll in.

Potter had smile lines next to his eyes, and they crinkled. “I think I like you, Malfoy,” he said, not moving away. 

Draco pinched the soft skin of Potter’s belly. “You’d better,” he whispered.

\\\\\

Draco showered and got dressed, telling Potter he couldn’t possibly make toast still covered in last night’s sweat, but by the time he got to the kitchen, Potter was making scrambled eggs stark naked. 

“You could borrow clothes,” Draco said, “Or wear your own, even.” 

“What’s the point?” Potter asked, scooping the eggs onto a plate. 

“Well, in polite society—”

“Still vegetarian, eh?” Potter interrupted, poking his head in the cooling cabinet. He _tsk_ ed. “Not a sausage in sight.” 

Biting back the urge to say _There’s a sausage right there_ , Draco asked, “How did you know I’m vegetarian?”

Potter grabbed a block of cheddar. “You weren’t, back at school. But in training, you were.”

“Yes. That’s not what I asked.” 

“Guess you could say I’m observant.” Potter slid a plate across the bar. 

Draco supposed, if this continued, he would have to accept that Potter simply would not tell him some things. Or anything at all, really, about Potter’s own life. 

The eggs were excellent, though.

“I do have to go to work today.” Draco sipped the orange juice Potter had laid out. 

“‘Course you do. Head Auror by now, aren’t you?”

“What?” Draco spluttered.

“Are you not?” Harry sat next to him at the bar, his bare arse on Draco’s fine leather stool. Barbaric. 

“I’m— Of course not. How could I be? I’m— _me_.” Flushing, Draco turned his head away. “Robards did, er, bring it up.”

“Exactly. You’re _you_. Last in a mighty lineage, powerful, clever as all hell.” Potter took a swig from Draco’s juice. Draco cringed. “Ambitious. All that. You’re perfect.”

Draco, feeling defensive and flattered and a little like he was living outside of his body, levitated his empty plate to the sink and stood. “I’m a Senior Auror, and I’m late for work. I assume since you’ve keyed yourself into the wards, you’ll let yourself out.”

Potter grabbed Draco’s wrist and pulled him back. “Hey. Don’t be so grumpy. You’re much cuter when you pout, try that.” 

Draco frowned, mad at the little flare of _something_ blooming in his chest at Potter’s words. “I don’t remember asking you, Potter.” 

“Hmm.” Potter grinned. Damned sot. “Well. I’ll see you later, eh?”

“Will you be here tonight?” Draco kicked himself for asking, but he had to know. 

“Mm, probably not. I have some business to attend to. I’ll be back, though.”

“This isn’t a bed and breakfast. You can’t come and go as you please.”

Potter leaned in, his stubble grazing Draco’s cheek as he whispered, “Can’t I, though?”

\\\\\

As the lift ascended and Draco was nearly crushed to death against the wall by a man who seemed to have several live birds in his robes, he pondered the Potter situation. 

It seemed that Draco had, against all reason and rationality, formed some kind of a... _thing_ with a man who had been missing for several years. So he couldn’t tell anyone about it—not even Potter’s closest friends—nor would he ostensibly be getting any answers out of Potter about his whereabouts. Or his activities. 

However. 

Potter _did_ kiss like it was his dying wish, and the sex was like some kind of reverse exorcism, where Draco was willingly inhabited by a terrible, delicious chaos demon. And Potter was warm and smelled nice and, so far, had not been completely unbearable, besides the breaking and entering business. 

The lift reached Draco’s floor, so he extricated himself from behind the bird-robe man and made his way to the bullpen. He was scheduled to do an update meeting with his team, but there were no updates, except his idiotic epiphany that the killer wasn’t particularly good at potion-making. 

Draco sighed. Aurors milled around him as he stood there among the Juniors’ desks. He felt quite adrift, suddenly. Untethered. Working himself to death on a seemingly unsolvable, ongoing serial murder case, and being shagged within an inch of his life by a child-hero-turned-impish-recluse. In the bed he’d shared with his fiance, what, two weeks ago? 

“Morning, sir. Tea?” Rosales was eying him from their desk. Draco squinted at them. _They know too much about me_ , he thought.

“No. Meeting in…” He checked the time. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll gather the troops,” Rosales responded with a mock salute and a grin. 

He grumbled his way to his office. That smile was _far_ too chummy; he’d need to knock Rosales down a peg before it got to their head. 

He set to work rounding up anything new for the briefing—a paltry stack of less than a dozen reports—and then made his way to the conference room. 

They ran through the new reports in record time, owing in part to the small quantity and partly because Draco had about a half ounce of patience left for the entire day, and then reviewed the schedule for guard detail. Draco did feel a little bit of pride at the fact that no one had been killed since he’d enacted the round-the-clock teams on anyone that met the killer’s guidelines. 

“Alright, and Blinkly, you’re on a double tomorrow—you meant to sign up for that?”

“Yes, sir. Wife’s expecting.” 

“Mazel tov,” Draco said. “Miranda, you’re after her… Okay, last up on the watch list is Latham. He’s in Shoreditch—ugh, of course he is—and looks like… He’s covered through next week. Nguyen, I see you’re on the schedule with Latham every day this week?”

“He’s local,” answered Louis Nguyen. “Just ‘round the block.”

“Ah. Yes, well. Sorry about that, er, earlier comment then.” Draco closed the file with a snap. “Any questions?”

Bored faces stared back at him. 

“Fantastic. I’ll be in my office.” 

Draco covered the case wall up as soon as he walked back in. He decided he’d take a few hours to do administrative work; maybe the brain-break would do him some good. Things were okay right now—no one getting murdered, everyone doing what they needed to do—so he shoved all the case files to the floor (neatly, he wasn’t a monster) and got to work on personnel issues. 

\\\\\

Around noon, Draco stretched and felt far too many vertebrae pop. A walk would be nice, he thought. He’d pop around to the gyro shop and get another falafel wrap, maybe eat outside under an umbrella, watch some real people walk around and do real people things. 

On his way out, a ginger-haired trainee stopped him. He nearly crashed into her, actually. 

“Sir, erm. Erm. I— Well, that’s to say—” 

He took a deep breath and thought of Potter’s hand on his chest this morning. “What’s that?”

“Er, Hillbury’s called in sick, sir.” 

“Hillsbury… He’s on who, Wiegers this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir.”

Green eyes, flecked with gold. Another breath. “Alright, well, get it covered, then.”

“Oh!” Ginger trainee looked elated. “Me, sir?”

Draco blinked. “Yes.”

She practically hopped up and down with excitement. “Oh, gosh, I will, sir!” 

Falafel wrap. Falafel wrap, and freckled shoulders. “Alright then,” Draco said. Trainees got stranger and stranger every damned year. 

\\\\\

Near the end of the day, Draco uncovered his case wall, feeling a little silly about his earlier rage. He repaired the little dent (pathetically small—he needed to start working out again) and followed the timeline through the last two years. He could have recited it from memory, but it felt fresher now. A little more hopeful. 

The pieces were all in front of him. He just had to arrange them correctly. 

His office door burst open. The ginger trainee from earlier stood there, her face white. She looked horrified. 

Draco asked, “What’s wrong?” But he already knew. 

“It’s Wiegers— I booked Fairfield to cover the shift but I forgot to tell him—”

Draco summoned his robes and started for the emergency apparition point. 

Ginger trailed along, now half-sobbing. “But I told the last shift, Henry, he could leave— I-I thought Fairfield would be there… I _forgot_ that I forgot to tell him—”

“Stop talking,” Draco barked, placing his wand in the scanner. His heart was pounding and it seemed like years before the beep confirmed he’d been logged. 

The trainee sagged against the wall. “I’m so— Sir, I’m—” She was fully crying now.

“Shut up. Now.” He conjured a Patronus—weak, but it would do—and instructed the wispy peacock to have Rosales send backup immediately. It whisked away in a swirl of white mist. 

He didn’t spare the trainee another glance. 

\\\\\

Thomas Wiegers, like Mars Blakely before him, took his last breath seconds before Draco arrived on his doorstep. 

He was purple-faced, hands still dug into the robe collar charmed to asphyxiate him, when Draco cursed the front door to splinters and ran to him to check for a pulse. But he was gone.

The back door was visible from the couch. It was wide open.

“FUCK!” Draco roared. He apparated the short distance to the back garden, but as he expected, there was no one in sight. 

Draco was shaking with fury. He walked back into the house, scanning the floor and the walls for anything left behind, but his vision was red-rimmed. Popping sounds started at the front door as more Aurors arrived, voices raised. Rosales led the charge through the fractured door. 

“Boss?” they asked, wand drawn.

“Body’s here,” Draco said. His voice cracked and the room spun. 

He needed to calm down or he’d be useless. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and thought of rain-soaked magic. Then another breath. 

And another. 

It smelled like…

Draco’s stomach dropped. He felt faint.

It smelled like rain here, like wet earth. 

Like the moment before lightning strikes. 

“ _No_ ,” he whispered. But it was impossible to deny. 

Harry Potter had been here. 

\\\\\

“Granger!” Draco had barely stopped spinning in the grate. He ignored the ash on his robes and strode into the room. 

“Draco, is that you? Ron’s not home yet, but I’m making dinner!” came Granger’s voice. Footsteps, then she walked into the living room. Her eyes widened when she saw him. “Draco, what’s—?

“You knew.” It wasn’t a question. 

“I—?” She looked away, holding her throat. 

Draco moved in closer. “You knew all this time? All of it?”

Granger shook her head, angry tears in her eyes. “No. Draco, no, I didn—” She broke into a coughing fit.

“God _damn_ the Vow, Granger, your best friend is a fucking serial killer!”

She slapped him, hard, across the face, and sank to the floor, still wheezing. “I. Didn’t. _Know_.”

Draco held his cheek in his palm, the sting like cold water. He stared down at Granger in disbelief.

“Go home,” she said tightly.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said.

“ _Go_. _Home_.”

Without another word to her, Draco left.

\\\\\

The townhome was dark and cold when Draco stepped out of the grate. The shock of Granger’s slap clung to him; his ear was ringing and his cheek was hot. 

He threw out a handful of _lumos_ orbs to light his way to the kitchen—to another bottle of whiskey, specifically, to make this entire day go away—but, of course, Potter was sitting on his couch. 

Potter was there, waiting.

Draco drew his wand. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

Potter looked at him, face hard. No impish grin tonight. 

Anger spiked at Draco’s fingertips. “I said get _out_.”

“No.” 

“No?” Draco felt the fury rush through him, felt it quivering to release with his magic. “This is my house, you fucking—”

Potter stood. “What, Draco? What am I?” In the half-shadow of the library, Potter’s face was broken into pieces of light and dark, and he looked…

Dangerous. Delicious.

Draco didn’t answer. He felt the urge to shiver, but he wouldn’t allow himself the vulnerability. 

“Are you going to duel me? Is that what this is?” Potter prowled closer. He was predatory, all grace and power. He spread his arms wide. “Have at it. I’ll even give you first cast.”

When Draco didn’t respond, Potter came even nearer. He was so close that Draco felt Potter’s breath on his lips. Draco didn’t know whether to kiss him or curse him. He was pulled tight, a violin string a moment from snapping. Potter was too electric, too _much_. Draco felt his magic, his raw power, surging around and through their bodies. His veins were singing or screaming or both. 

\\\\\

When a thunderstorm is coming, one has two options: Take shelter and try to withstand it, or embrace it and let it roll through without resistance. 

Draco Malfoy chose the latter. 

\\\\\

**The Daily Prophet**

Friday, 8 February 2008

**SENIOR AUROR MURDERED?**

**__** _Geraldina Torchs_

Wednesday evening, Aurors rushed to Senior Auror Draco Malfoy’s townhome in Bayswater.. The scene they found there was horrifying: Furniture toppled, glass bottles broken, curse burns criss-crossing the walls and floors. It was clear there had been a struggle—possibly a _deadly one_.

Investigators found a number of blood splatters and smears, identified this morning as belonging to Auror Malfoy. Analysis of the curse marks revealed that several Dark spells had been cast, though no source wand was able to be identified. 

The Aurors did not find Auror Malfoy—or his body. 

Head Auror Gawain Robards insisted at the press conference this morning that the DMLE believes it is possible that Auror Malfoy remains alive, but others in the Department are not so hopeful. 

“You didn’t see it,” said our inside source, tears streaming down her face. “It looked like all the other scenes. Just… no body.”

The _other scenes_ , readers will recall, refers to the horrifying string of homicides this writer has been reporting on for over two years— _the very case on which Draco Malfoy was lead investigator_. 

In fact, Auror Malfoy was last seen at the home of Thomas Wiegers, who was killed Wednesday afternoon. Investigators are positive that Wiegers was murdered by the same perpetrator as the previous six victims.

“Malfoy got there first,” said Tatum Rosales, a Junior Auror on the investigation. “He went ahead of us, I think to try to save Wiegers… When I walked in the door, he looked scared, pale as anything. He used the floo—I didn’t hear his destination—and that was it. He never came back.” 

The conclusion of these events is chillingly clear, at least to this writer: Draco Malfoy was murdered in cold blood by the very same killer he has been trying to bring to justice. He is not only another casualty in this atrocity, but a hero. Auror Malfoy sacrificed his own life trying to save the lives of fellow wixes. 

Draco Malfoy was the last in the Malfoy line; his parents, Narcissa Black Malfoy and Lucius Malfoy, preceded him in death. Auror Malfoy recently separated from his partner, Antoine Beauchamp. Malfoy’s closest friend, Hermione Granger-Weasley, is planning his memorial services. 

\\\\\

“‘ _Hero_?’ Seriously?”

Draco chuckled. “It’s in the _Prophet_. That means it’s true.”

Potter rolled down his window and threw the newspaper out. “You’re incorrigible.”

“ _You’re_ incorrigible. You don’t even know what that means. And you’re a litterer.”

“How much longer?”

“Three hours.”

Potter groaned. 

“You’re the one who picked someone in fucking Edinburgh.” Draco pulled a pear drop from the bag by the gear shift. “I’m picking next.” 

“I don’t think so. This is my operation.”

“I had to listen to Granger whine for _weeks_ about planning my funeral. I think I get to choose _one_.” 

“Not a chance.”

\\\\\

“Blood fucking _everywhere_ —did you even _try_ to aim that _Sectumsempra_?”

“Shut up. It went fine.” Draco flushed, embarrassed at his mistake.

“Ugh. _Fine_ , sure. But I have _standards_.” Potter stripped out of his blood-stained clothes, piled them into a metal bucket. “Go on, put yours in too.”

Draco did so, careful not to smear any blood on the dirt floor of the bothy. Potter set fire to the lot. It was early spring in the highlands; the warmth of the flames was welcome.

Once the flames died down, Potter Vanished them and cast a _scourgify_ on the bucket. “C’mon, let’s go shower.” He smacked Draco’s bum. “You’re bottoming tonight.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “We still have four hours ‘til we have to be at Granger’s. We can both top.” 

“Oh, you think I’m gonna be quick, eh? Not a chance.” Potter’s eyes were dark, his blood-red lips wide with that devilish grin.

In every sense of the word, Draco was fucked. 

And he loved it.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of H/D Cluefest and the creator is currently undercover. You can follow the fest at our [Tumblr](https://hd-cluefest.tumblr.com/). Creators will be unmasked on the 15th April.


End file.
